THE 

FORBIDDEN  WAYJI 


I 


CALi. 


THE 

FORBIDDEN  WAY 


THE 
FORBIDDEN  WAY 


BY 

GEORGE  GIBBS 

AUTHOR  OF 
THE  BOLTED  DOOR,  ETC. 


ILLUSTRATED 


NEW    YORK 

GROSSET    &    DUNLAP 

PUBLISHERS 


COPYRISHT,   1911,  BT 

D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 
Copyrifht,  1811,  by  Associated  Sunday  Magazines,  Incorporated. 

LOAN  STACK 


Published  September,  1911 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


CONTENTS 


I.  SHARP  PRACTICE 1 

II.  CAMILLA 11 

III.  NEW  YORK 26 

IV.  THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 41 

V.  DINERS  OUT 53 

VI.  MRS.  CHEYNE 65 

VII.  BRAEBANK 80 

V7H,  THE  BRUSH 97 

IX.  THE  SHADOW 114 

X.  TRITON  OF  THE  MINNOWS    ....  128 

XI.  DISCORD 144 

XII.  TEA  CUPS  AND  Music 157 

XIII.  GOOD  FISHING 172 

XIV.  FATHER  AND  SON 184 

XV.  INFATUATION          200 

XVI.  OLD  DANGERS 214 

XVII.  OLD  ROSE  LEAVES 226 

XVIII.  COMBAT 244 

XIX.  THE  LADY  IN  GRAY 264 

XX.  LA  FEMME  PBOPOSE 276 

XXI.  VHoMME  DISPOSE 291 

XXII.  PRIVATE  MATTERS 306 

XXIII.  THE  INTRUDER 322 

XXIV.  GRETCHEN  DECIDES 334 

XXV.  THE  CRISIS 345 

XXVI.  THE  CALL  OF  THE  HEART    ....  358 

XXVII.  GENERAL  BENT 371 

XXVIII.  HOUSEHOLD  GODS  — AND  GODDESSES  379 


067 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 

CHAPTER  I 

SHARP    PRACTICE 

THE  young  man  in  the  swivel  chair  drummed 
with  his  toes  against  the  desk,  while  he 
studied  the  gaudy  fire  insurance  calendar 
on  the  wall  before  him.  His  pipe  hung  bowl  down 
ward  from  his  lips,  and  the  long  fingers  of  one 
hand  toyed  with  a  legal  document  in  his  lap. 

"Something  new  is  hatching  in  this  incubator," 
he  muttered  at  last,  dipping  his  pen  in  the  ink 
bottle  again.  "And  I  think  —  I  think  it's  an  ugly 
duckling.  Of  course,  it's  no  business  of  mine, 

but "  He  looked  up  suddenly  as  a  bulky  figure 

darkened  the  doorway.  "Hello,  Jeff!" 

Jeff  Wray  nodded  and  walked  to  the  water 
cooler. 

"  Mulrennan's  been  here  to  see  you  three  times," 
said  the  man  in  the  swivel  chair.  "Each  time  he's 
been  getting  madder.  I  wish  you'd  keep  your 
appointments  or  get  another  office-boy.  That 
man's  vocabulary  is  a  work  of  genius.  Even  you, 
in  your  happiest  humors  —  why,  what's  the  matter 
with  your  face?" 

Wray  put  his  fingers  up.  Four  red  streaks  ran 

1 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


parallel  across  his  cheek  bone.  He  touched  the 
marks  with  his  hand,  then  looked  at  his  finger  tips. 

"Oh,  that?  Seems  like  I  must  have  butted  into 
something."  He  gave  a  short,  unmirthful  laugh. 
"Don't  make  me  look  any  prettier,  does  it?  Funny 
I  didn't  feel  it  before."  And  then,  as  he  turned  to 
the  inner  office,  "Is  Mulrennan  coming  back?" 
he  asked. 

"Yes,  at  five." 

Wray  glanced  at  the  clock.  "Has  Bent  been 
in?" 

"No." 

"When  will  those  papers  be  ready?" 

"To-night,  if  you  want  them." 

"Good!"  Wray  turned,  with  his  hand  on  the 
knob  of  the  door.  "When  Pete  comes,  send  him 
back.  Will  you,  Larry?" 

Larry  Berkely  nodded,  and  Wray  went  into  the 
back  office  and  closed  the  door  behind  him.  He 
took  out  his  keys  and  unlocked  the  desk,  but, 
instead  of  sitting  at  once,  he  went  over  to  a  cracked 
mirror  in  the  corner  and  examined  his  face,  grinning 
at  his  image  and  touching  the  red  marks  with  his 
fingers. 

"That  was  a  love-tap  for  fair,"  he  said.  "I 
reckon  I  deserved  it.  But  she  oughtn't  to  push  a 
man  too  far.  She  was  sure  angry.  Won't  speak 
now  for  a  while."  He  turned  with  a  confident  air. 
"She'll  come  around,  though,"  he  laughed.  "You 
just  bet  she  will."  Then  he  sat  down  at  his  desk, 
took  a  photograph  in  a  brass  frame  out  of  the  drawer, 


SHARP  PRACTICE 


put  it  up  against  the  pen-rack  before  him,  and, 
folding  his  arms  across  the  blotter,  gazed  at  it 
steadily  for  a  moment. 

"It  was  a  mean  trick,  wasn't  it,  Camilla  girl?" 
he  muttered,  half  aloud.  "I'm  sorry.  But  you've 
got  to  learn  who  you  belong  to.  There  can't  be 
any  fooling  of  other  fellows  around  Jeff  Wray's 
girl.  I  just  had  to  kiss  you  —  had  to  put  my  seal 
on  you,  Camilla.  I  reckon  you  put  yours  on  me, 
too,  black  and  blue."  He  laughed  ruefully.  "You'll 
forgive  me,  though.  A  diamond  necklace  or  so  will 
square  that.  You  bet  it  will!" 

He  put  the  picture  down,  hid  it  away,  and  took 
up  some  papers  that  lay  before  him.  But  when, 
a  while  later,  Larry  Berkely  showed  Mulrennan 
in,  they  found  him  sitting  with  his  face  to  the 
window,  looking  out  with  his  baby  stare  over  the 
hundred  thousand  acres  of  the  Hermosa  Company. 

"Come  in,  Pete,  and  shut  the  door.  You  don't 
mind,  Larry?  Mulrennan  and  I  have  got  some 
private  business."  Then,  when  the  door  was  closed, 
he  said  in  a  half -whisper,  "Well?  What  did  you 
find  out  about  the  'Lone  Tree'?" 

Mr.  Mulrennan  carefully  sought  the  cuspidor, 
then  wiped  his  brow  with  a  dirty  red  handkerchief. 
"What  didn't  I  find  out?  God,  Jeff!  that  mine's 
lousy  with  sylvanite.  The  watchman  was  asleep, 
and  we  got  in  scrumpshus-like.  It's  half  way 
down  that  short  winze  they  made  last  fall.  Max 
had  put  some  timbers  up  to  hide  it,  and  we  pulled 
'em  down.  We  only  had  matches  to  strike  and 

3 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


couldn't  see  much,  but  what  we  saw  was  a-plenty* 
It's  the  vein,  all  right.  Holy  Mother!  but  it  started 
my  mouth  to  watherin'  —  I  haven't  had  a  wink 

of  shlape.  Where  in  h 1  have  you  been  all 

day?" 

"Business,"  said  Jeff  vaguely,  "in  the  moun 
tains." 

"It's  no  time  to  be  potherin'  about  wid  little 
matthers."  Mulrennan  brought  his  huge  fist  down 
on  the  table.  "You've  got  to  nail  this  deal,  Jeff, 
to-day." 

"To-day?    Bent  hasn't  been  back." 

"Well,  you've  got  to  find  him  —  now.'* 

"What  for?  See  here,  Pete,  cool  down.  •  Can't 
you  see  if  I  go  after  him  he'll  get  suspicious  —  and 
then  good-bye  to  everything.  You  leave  this  deal 
to  me.  He'll  sign.  Larry's  drawing  the  lease  and 
bond  now.  Maybe  to-morrow " 

"To-morrow?  To-morrow  will  be  too  late.  That's 
what  I'm  gettin'  at.  Max  is  ugly " 

Wray  clenched  his  bony  fingers  over  the  chair 
arm  and  leaned  across  the  desk. 

"Max!"   he   whispered   angrily.     "What ?" 

"He's  afther  more  money.  He  talked  pretty  big 

last  night,  but  this  mornin' "  He  broke  off 

breathlessly.  "  Oh,  I've  had  the  h 1  of  a  day " 

"What  did  he  say?" 

"He's  talkin'  of  goin'  to  the  mine  owner.  He 
says,  after  all,  Cort  Bent  never  harmed  him  any, 
and  it's  only  a  matter  of  who  gives  him  the 
most." 


SHARP  PRACTICE 


Wray  got  to  his  feet  and  took  two  or  three  rapid 
turns  up  and  down  the  room. 

"  D n  him !"  he  muttered.  And  then  suddenly, 

"Where  is  he  now?" 

"Up  the  bar  playing  pinochle  with  Fritz." 

"Are  you  sure?" 

"He  was  twenty  minutes  ago.  I  haven't  left 
him  a  minute  except  to  come  here.  Fritz  is  losin' 
money  to  him.  I  told  him  to.  That  will  kape  him 
for  a  while." 

But  Wray  had  already  taken  up  his  hat.  "  Come, 
let's  go  up  there.  We've  got  to  shut  his  mouth 
some  way,"  he  said,  through  set  lips. 

"I've  been  promisin5  myself  sick,  but  he's  a  sharp 
one  —  God!  But  I  wish  them  papers  was  signed," 
sighed  Mulrennan. 

As  they  passed  through  the  office  Jeff  stopped  a 
moment. 

"If  Bent  comes  in,  Larry,  tell  him  I'll  be  back 
in  half  an  hour.  Understand?  Don't  seem  anxious. 
Just  tell  him  I'm  going  to  Denver  and  want  to  settle 
that  deal  one  way  or  another  as  soon  as  possible." 

Berkely  nodded  and  watched  the  strange  pair 
as  they  made  their  way  up  the  street.  Wray,  his 
head  down  and  hands  in  his  pockets,  and  the  Irish 
man  using  his  arms  in  violent  gestures. 

"I'm   sure  it's   an   ugly   duckling,"   commented 

the  sage. 

***** 

It  was  three  years  now  since  Berkely  had  come  to 
Colorado  for  his  health,  and  two  since  Fate  had  sent 

5 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


him  drifting  down  to  Mesa  City  and  Jeff  Wray. 
Mesa  City  was  a  "boom"  town.  Three  years  ago, 
when  the  "Jack  Pot"  mine  was  opened,  it  had  become 
the  sudden  proud  possessor  of  five  hotels  (and 
saloons),  three  "general"  stores,  four  barber  shops, 
three  pool  rooms,  a  livery  stable,  and  post  office. 
Its  main  (and  only)  street  was  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
in  length,  and  the  plains  for  a  half  mile  in  every 
direction  had  been  dotted  with  the  camps  of  the 
settlers.  It  had  almost  seemed  as  if  Saguache 
County  had  found  another  Cripple  Creek. 

A  time  passed,  and  then  Mesa  City  awoke  one 
morning  to  find  that  the  gamblers,  the  speculators, 
and  the  sporting  men  (and  women)  had  gone  forth 
to  other  fields,  and  left  it  to  its  fate,  and  the  town 
knew  that  it  was  a  failure. 

But  Jeff  Wray  stayed  on.  And  when  Berkely 
came,  he  stayed,  too,  partly  because  the  place 
seemed  to  improve  his  health,  but  more  largely  on 
account  of  Jeff  Wray.  What  was  it  that  had  drawn 
him  so  compellingly  toward  the  man?  He  liked 
him  —  why,  he  could  not  say  —  but  he  did  —  and 
that  was  the  end  of  it.  There  was  a  directness  in 
the  way  Wray  went  after  what  he  wanted  which 
approached  nothing  Berkely  could  think  of  so  much 
as  the  unhesitating  self-sufficiency  of  a  child.  He 
seemed  to  have  an  intuition  for  the  right  thing,  and, 
though  he  often  did  the  wrong  one,  Berkely  was 
aware  that  he  did  it  open-eyed  and  that  no  book 
wisdom  or  refinement  would  have  made  the  slightest 
difference  in  the  consummation  of  his  plans.  Berkely 

6 


SHARP  PRACTICE 


was  sure,  as  Wray  was  sure,  that  the  only  reason  Jeff 
hadn't  succeeded  was  because  opportunity  hadn't  yet 
come  knocking  at  his  door.  He  liked  Wray  because 
he  was  bold  and  strong,  because  he  looked  him  in 
the  eye,  because  he  gave  a  sense  of  large  areas,  be 
cause  his  impulses,  bad  as  well  as  good,  were  generous 
and  big,  like  the  mountains  and  plains  of  which  he 
was  a  part.  His  schemes  showed  flashes  of  'genius, 
but  neither  of  them  had  money  enough  to  put  them 
into  practice.  He  was  always  figuring  in  hundreds 
of  thousands  or  even  in  millions,  and  at  times  it 
seemed  to  Berkely  as  though  he  was  frittering  his 
life  away  over  small  problems  when  he  might  have 
been  mastering  big  ones.  At  others  he  seemed 
very  like  Mulberry  Sellers,  Munchausen,  and 
D'Artagnan  all  rolled  into  one. 

What  was  happening  now,  Berkely  could  not 
determine,  so  he  gave  up  the  problem  and,  when 
his  work  was  done,  filled  his  pipe,  strolled  to  the 
door,  and  watched  the  changing  colors  on  the  moun 
tains  to  the  east  of  him,  as  the  sun,  sinking  lower, 
found  some  clouds  and  sent  their  shadows  scurrying 
along  the  range  to  the  southward.  With  his  eye 
he  followed  the  line  of  the  trail  up  the  canon,  and 
far  up  above  the  cottonwoods  that  skirted  the  town 
he  could  see  two  figures  on  horseback  coming  down. 
He  recognized  them  at  once,  even  at  that  distance, 
for  they  were  a  sight  to  which  Mesa  City  had  be 
come  accustomed. 

"Camilla  and  Bent,"  he  muttered.  "I'm  glad 
Jeff's  not  here.  It's  been  getting  on  his  nerves. 

7 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


I  hope  if  Bent  sells  out  he'll  hunt  a  new  field.  There 
are  too  few  women  around  here  —  too  few  like 
Camilla.  I  ;  wonder  if  she  really  cares.  I  won- 
der " 

He  stopped,  his  eyes  contracted  to  pin  points. 
The  pair  on  the  horses  had  halted,  and  the  man 
had  drawn  close  to  his  companion,  leaning  forward. 
Was  he  fixing  her  saddle?  An  unconscious  excla 
mation  came  from  Berkely's  lips. 

"He's  got  his  nerve  —  right  in  plain  view  of  the 
town,  too.  What ?" 

The  girl's  horse  suddenly  drew  ahead  and  came 
galloping  down  through  the  scrub-oak,  the  man 
following.  Berkely  smiled.  "The  race  isn't  always 
to  the  swift,  Cort  Bent,"  he  muttered. 

At  the  head  of  the  street  he  saw  Miss  Ir win's 
horse  turn  in  at  the  livery  stable  where  she  kept 
him,  but  Cortland  Bent's  came  straight  on  at  an 
easy  canter  and  halted  at  Berkely's  door. 

"Is  Wray  there?"  asked  Bent. 

"No,  but  he  told  me  to  ask  you  to  wait.  Won't 
you  come  in?" 

"Just  tell  him  I'll  be  in  in  the  morning." 

"Jeff  may  go  to  Denver  to-morrow,"  said  Larry, 
"but  of  course  there's  no  hurry " 

Bent  took  out  a  silver  cigarette  case  and  offered 
it  to  Berkely.  "  See  here,  Larry,"  he  said,"  what  the 
devil  do  you  fellows  want  with  the  'Lone  Tree'? 
Are  you  going  to  work  it,  or  are  you  getting  it  for 
some  one  else?  Of  course,  it's  none  of  my  business 

—  but  I'd  like  to  know,  just " 

8 


SHARP  PRACTICE 


"Oh,  I'm  not  in  this.  This  is  Jeff's  deal.  I  don't 
know  much  about  it,  but  I  think  he'd  probably 
work  it  for  a  while." 

Together  they  walked  into  the  office,  and  Berkely 
spread  some  papers  out  over  the  desk.  "Jeff  told 
me  to  draw  these  up.  I  think  you'll  find  everything 
properly  stated." 

Bent  nodded.  "Humph!  He  feels  pretty  certain 
I'll  sign,  doesn't  he?" 

Berkely  stood  beside  him,  smoking  and  leaning 
over  his  shoulder,  but  didn't  reply. 

Bent  laughed.  "Well,  it's  all  cut  and  dried. 
Seems  a  pity  to  have  put  you  to  so  much  trouble, 
Larry.  I  haven't  made  up  my  mind.  They  say 
twice  as  much  money  goes  into  gold  mines 
as  ever  comes  out  of  'em.  I  guess  it's  true. 
If  it  wasn't  for  Jeff  Wray  in  this  deal  I'd  sign 
that  paper  in  a  minute.  But  I've  always  had  an 
idea  that  some  day  he'd  make  his  pile,  and  I 
don't  relish  the  idea  of  his  making  it  on  me. 
He's  a  visionary  —  a  fanatic  on  the  gold  in 
these  mountains,  but  fortune  has  a  way  of  favoring 
the  fool " 

"Sounds  as  though  you  might  be  talking  about 
me,"  said  a  voice  from  the  doorway,  where  Jeff 
stood  smiling,  his  broad  figure  completely  blocking 
the  entrance. 

Bent  turned,  confused,  but  recovered  himself  with 
a  short  laugh.  "Yes,  I  was,"  he  replied  slowly. 
"I've  put  twenty  thousand  dollars  in  that  hole  in 
the  rocks,  and  I  hate  to  leave  it.  " 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


Jeff  Wray  wiped  his  brow,  went  to  the  cooler, 
drew  a  glass  of  water,  and  slowly  drank  it. 

"Well,  my  friend,"  he  said  carelessly  between 
swallows,  "there's  still  time  to  back  down.  You're 
not  committed  to  anything.  Neither  am  I.  Suit 
yourself.  I'm  going  to  get  a  mine  or  so.  But  I'm 
not  particular  which  one.  The  'Daisy'  looks  good 
to  me,  but  they  want  too  much  for  it.  The  terms 
on  your  mine,  the  'Lone  Tree,'  just  about  suited 
me  —  that's  all.  It's  not  a  'big'  proposition. 
It  might  pan  thirty  or  forty  to  the  ton,  but  there's 
not  much  in  that  —  not  away  up  there.  Take  my 
offer  —  or  leave  it,  Bent.  I  don't  give  a  d  —  n." 

He  tossed  his  hat  on  the  chair,  took  off  his  coat, 
and  opened  the  door  of  the  back  office. 

"Larry,"  he  added,  "you  needn't  bother  to  stay, 
I've  got  some  writing  to  do.  I'll  lock  up  when  I 

go." 

If  Mr.  Mulrennan  had  been  present  he  would 
have  lost  his  senses  in  sheer  admiration  or  sheer 
dismay.  Berkely  remembered  that  "bluff"  later, 
when  he  learned  how  much  had  depended  on  its 
success. 

But  it  worked  beautifully. 

"Oh,  well,"  said  Bent  peevishly,  "let's  get  it 
over.  I'll  sign.  Are  you  ready  to  make  a  settle 
ment?" 


CHAPTER  H 

CAMILLA 

HER  pupils  had  all  been  dismissed  for  the  day 
and  the  schoolmistress  sat  at  her  desk, 
a  half-written  letter  before  her,  gazing  out 
through  the  open  doorway  over  the  squalid  roofs 
of  the  "residence  section"  of  Mesa  City.  The 
"Watch  Us  Grow"  sign  on  the  false  front  over 
Jeff  Wray's  office  was  just  visible  over  the  flat  roof 
of  the  brick  bank  building.  "Watch  Us  Grow!" 
The  shadow  in  her  eyes  deepened.  For  two  long  years 
she  had  seen  that  sign  from  doorway  and  window 
of  the  school,  and,  even  when  she  went  home  to 
Mrs.  Brennan's  bungalow  up  above,  she  must  see 
it  again  from  the  veranda.  Jeff's  business  card 
was  the  most  prominent  object  in  town,  except 
perhaps  Jeff  himself.  It  was  so  much  larger  than 
it  had  any  right  to  be,  out  of  scale,  so  vulgar,  so 
insistent,  so  —  so  like  Jeff.  Jeff  had  stood  in  the 
doorway  of  the  schoolhouse  while  they  were  build 
ing  his  office,  and,  in  his  masterful  way,  had  told 
her  of  the  trade-mark  he  had  adopted  for  his  busi 
ness;  he  wanted  it  in  plain  sight  of  her  desk  so  that 
she  could  see  it  every  day  and  watch  Mesa  City 
(and  himself)  fulfil  the  prophecy. 
That  seemed  ages  ago  now.  It  was  before  the 

11 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


"Jeff  Wray"  had  been  painted  out  and  "Wray  and 
Berkely"  put  in  its  place,  before  Larry  came  out, 
or  Cortland  Bent,  in  the  days  when  Jeff  was  a  new 
kind  of  animal  to  her,  when  she  had  arrived  fresh 
from  her  boarding  school  in  Kansas.  "Watch  Us 
Grow!"  How  could  any  one  grow  in  a  place  like 
this  —  grow  anything,  at  least,  but  wrinkled  and 
stale  and  ugly.  The  sign  had  been  a  continual 
mockery  to  her,  a  travesty  on  the  deeper  possibilities 
of  life  which  Fate  had  so  far  denied  her.  She  shut 
her  eyes  and  resolutely  turned  her  head  away,  but 
she  could  not  get  Jeff  Wray  out  of  her  mind.  She 
was  thoroughly  frightened.  His  air  of  proprietor 
ship  so  suddenly  assumed  yesterday  and  the  brutality 
of  his  kiss  had  brought  her  own  feelings  to  a  crisis 
—  for  she  had  learned  in  that  moment  that  their 
relationship  was  impossible.  But  her  fingers  tingled 
still  —  at  the  memory  of  the  blow  she  had  given 
him.  She  had  promised  to  marry  him  when  he 
"made  good."  But  in  Mesa  City  that  had  seemed 
like  no  promise  at  all.  How  could  any  one  succeed 
in  anything  here? 

She  leaned  forward  on  the  desk  and  buried  her 
face  in  her  hands.  What  chance  had  she?  Where 
was  the  fairy  prince  who  would  rescue  her  from  her 
hut  and  broth  kettle? 

She  raised  her  head  at  the  sound  of  a  voice  and 
saw  Cortland  Bent's  broad  shoulders  at  the  open 
window. 

"Morning!"  he  said  cheerfully.  "You  look  like 
Ariadne  deserted.  May  I  come  in?" 

12 


CAMILLA 


She  nodded  assent,  and,  thrusting  her  school 
books  and  unfinished  letter  in  the  desk,  turned  the 
key  viciously  in  its  lock. 

"Aren't  you  riding  to-day?"  he  asked  from  the 
doorway. 

"No." 

He  came  forward,  sat  on  the  top  of  one  of  the  small 
desks  facing  her,  and  examined  her  at  his  ease. 

"You're  peevish  —  no?     What? " 

"Yes.  I'm  in  a  frightful  mood.  You'd  better 
not  stay." 

He  only  laughed  up  at  the  sunflower  dangling 
from  the  water  pitcher.  "Oh,  I  don't  mind.  I've 
a  heavenly  disposition." 

"How  do  you  show  it?"  she  broke  in  impetuously. 
"Every  man  thinks  the  one  way  to  get  on  with  a 
woman  is  to  make  love  to  her " 

"No  —  not  altogether,"  he  reproached  her.  "You 
and  I  have  had  other  topics,  you  know  —  Swin 
burne  and  Shakespeare  and  the  musical  glasses." 

"Oh,  yes,  but  you  always  drifted  back  again." 

"How  can  you  blame  me?  If  I've  made  love  to 
you,  it  was " 

" Oh,  I  know.     I'm  a  rustic,  and  it's  a  good  game." 

"You're  the  least  rustic  person  I've  ever  known," 
lie  said  seriously.  "It's  not  a  game.  I  can't  think 
of  it  as  a  game.  It  is  something  more  serious  than 
that."  He  took  a  few  paces  up  and  down  the  aisle 
before  her  and  then  went  on. 

"I  know  you've  never  been  willing  to  give  me 
credit  for  anything  I've  said  when  I've  tried  to  show 

13 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


you  how  much  you  were  to  me  —  and  yet,  I  think 
you  cared  —  you've  showed  it  sometimes.  But 
I've  tried  to  go  about  my  work  and  forget  you, 
because  I  thought  it  was  best  for  us  both.  But  I 
can't,  Camilla,  I  tell  you  I  can't  get  you  out  of  my 
head.  I  think  of  something  else,  and  then,  in  a 
moment,  there  you  are  again  —  elusive,  mocking, 
scornful,  tender,  all  in  a  breath.  And  then,  when  I 
find  you're  there  to  stay,  I  don't  try  any  more. 
I  don't  want  to  think  of  anything  else."  He  leaned 
across  the  desk  and  seized  one  of  her  hands  with 
an  ardor  which  took  her  by  storm.  "You've  got 
into  my  blood  like  wine,  Camilla.  To  be  near  you 
means  to  reach  forward  and  take  you  —  the  sound 
of  your  voice,  the  response  of  your  eyes,  the  appeal 
of  your  mind  to  mine  in  this  wilderness  of  spirit  — 
I  can't  deny  them  —  I  don't  want  to  deny  them." 

Her  head  sank,  but  she  withdrew  her  hands. 
"And  my  sanity?"  she  asked  clearly.  "That  does 
not  appeal  to  you." 

"Perhaps  it  does  —  most  of  all.  It  maddens 
me,  too  —  that  I  can't  make  you  care  for  me  enough 
to  forget  yourself." 

She  looked  up  at  him,  smiling  gently  now.  "It 
is  easy  to  say  forget  myself,  that  you  may  have  one 
more  frail  woman  to  remember.  Am  I  so  provincial, 
Cortland  Bent?  Am  I  really  so  rustic?  Two  days 
ago  you  were  telling  me  I  had  all  the  savoir  faire 
of  the  great  lady." 

He  did  not  reply  to  that,  but,  while  she  watched 
him,  he  got  up  and  walked  slowly  over  to  the  map 

14 


CAMILLA 


of  the  United  States  which  hung  between  the  win 
dows. 

"I  don't  suppose  it  will  mean  anything  to  you 
when  I  tell  you  I'm  going,"  he  said  bitterly. 

"Going  — where?" 

"East." 

"For  long?" 

"For  good.     I've   leased   the   mine." 

She  started  up  from  her  chair,  breathless,  and 
stood  poised  on  the  edge  of  the  platform,  the  slender 
fingers  of  one  hand  grasping  the  projecting  edge  of 
the  desk. 

"You're  —  going  —  East  to  —  to  stay?" 

He  did  not  turn,  and,  if  he  noticed  any  change 
in  her  intonation,  he  gave  no  sign  of  it. 

"I've  finished  here.  The  mine  is  leased.  I'm 
going  back  to  New  York." 

"I  can't  believe  —  you  never  told  me.  It's 
curious  you  shouldn't  have  said  something  be 
fore." 

"Why  should  I?  No  man  likes  to  admit  that 
he's  a  failure." 

"You've  leased  the  'Lone  Tree'?     To  whom?" 

"To  Wray.  He  made  me  a  proposition  yesterday. 
I've  accepted  it.  In  fact,  I'm  out  of  the  thing 
altogether." 

"Jeff?  I  don't  understand.  Why,  only  yester 
day  he " 

Was  it  loyalty  to  Jeff  that  made  her  pause?  He 
turned  quickly. 

"What  —  did  he  say  anything?" 

15 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


"Oh,  nothing  —  only  that  the  mine  was  a  failure. 
That  seems  curious  if  he  had  decided  to  lease 
it." 

"Oh!"  he  said  smiling,  "it's  only  Wray's  way 
of  doing  business.  When  anything  is  hanging  fire 
he  always  says  exactly  what  he  doesn't  mean. 
He  doesn't  worry  me.  I've  gone  over  that  hole 
with  a  fine-tooth  comb,  and  I'm  glad  to  get  out  of 
it." 

"And  out  of  Mesa  City?"  Then,  with  an  at 
tempt  at  carelessness,  "Of  course  we'll  all  miss 
you,"  she  said  dully. 

"Don't!  You  mustn't  speak  to  me  in  that  way. 
I've  always  been  pretty  decent  to  you.  You've 
never  believed  in  me,  but  that's  because  you've 
never  believed  in  any  man.  I've  tried  to  show  you 
how  differently  I  felt  - 

"By  kissing  me?"  she  mocked  scornfully. 

Bent  changed  his  tone.  "See  here,  Camilla," 
he  said,  "I'm  not  in  a  mood  to  be  trifled  with.  I 
can't  go  away  from  here  and  leave  you  in  this 
God-forsaken  hole.  There  isn't  a  person  here  fit 
for  you  to  associate  with.  It  will  drive  you  mad 
in  another  year.  Do  you  ever  try  to  picture  what 
your  future  out  here  is  going  to  be?" 

"Haven't  I?  "bitterly. 

"  You've  seen  them  out  on  the  ranches,  haven't 
you?  Slabsided,  gingham  scarecrows  in  sunbon- 
nets,  brown  and  wrinkled  like  dried  peaches, 
moving  all  day  from  kitchen  to  bedroom,  from  bed 
room  to  barn,  and  back  again " 

16 


CAMILLA 


"Yes,  yes,"  said  Camilla,  her  head  in  her  hands. 
"I've  seen  them." 

"Without  one  thought  in  life  but  the  successes 
of  their  husbands  —  the  hay  crop,  the  price  of 
cattle;  without  other  diversion  than  the  visit  to  Kin- 
ney,  the  new  hat  and  frock  once  a  year  (a  year 
behind  the  fashion);  their  only  companions  wo 
men  like  themselves,  with  the  same  tastes,  the 
same  thoughts,  the  same  habits  - 

"O  God!"  whispered  the  girl,  laying  a  restrain 
ing  hand  on  his  arm,  "don't  go  on!  I  can't  stand 
it." 

He  clasped  her  hands  in  both  of  his  own. 

"Don't  you  see  it's  impossible?"  he  whispered. 
"You  weren't  made  for  that  kind  of  thing.  Your 
bloom  would  fade  like  theirs,  only  sooner  because 
of  your  fineness.  You'd  never  grow  like  those 
women,  because  it  isn't  in  you  to  be  ugly.  But 
you'd  fade  early." 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "I  know  it." 

"You  can't  stay.  I  know,  just  as  you  know,  that 
you  were  never  meant  for  a  life  like  that  —  you 
weren't  meant  for  a  life  like  this.  Do  you  care  what 
becomes  of  these  kids?  No  matter  how  much 
chance  you  give  them  to  get  up  in  the  world,  they'll 
seek  their  own  level  in  the  end." 

"No,  I  can't  stay  here."  She  repeated  the  phrase 
mechanically,  her  gaze  afar. 

"I've  watched  you,  Camilla.  I  know.  For  all 
your  warm  blood,  you're  no  hardy  plant  to  be 
nourished  in  a  soil  like  this.  You  need  environ- 

17 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


meat,  culture,  the  sun  of  flattery,  of  wealth  —  with 
out  them  you'll  wither " 

"And  die.  Yes,  I  will.  I  could  not  stand  this 
much  longer.  Perhaps  it  would  be  better  to  die  than 
to  become  the  dull,  sodden  things  these  women  are." 

"Listen,  Camilla,"  he  said  madly.  He  put  his 
arms  around  her,  his  pulses  leaping  at  the  contact 
of  her  body.  Her  figure  drooped  away  from  him, 
but  he  felt  the  pressure  of  her  warm  fingers  in  his, 
and  saw  the  veins  throbbing  at  her  throat  and 
temples,  and  he  knew  that  at  last  she  was  awakened. 
"You  must  come  with  me  to  the  East.  I  won't 
go  without  you.  I  want  you.  I  want  to  see  you 
among  people  of  your  own  sort.  I'll  be  good  to 
you  —  so  gentle,  so  kind  that  you'll  soon  forget 
that  there  ever  was  such  a  place  as  this." 

His  tenderness  overpowered  her,  and  she  felt 
herself  yielding  to  the  warmth  of  his  entreaty.  "Do 
you  really  need  me  so  much?"  she  asked  brokenly. 

His  reply  was  to  draw  her  closer  to  him  and  to 
raise  her  lips  to  his.  But  she  turned  her  head  and 
would  not  let  him  kiss  her.  Perhaps  through  her 
mind  passed  the  memory  of  that  other  kiss  only 
yesterday. 

"No,  I'm  afraid." 

"Of  me?     Why?" 

"Of  myself.  Life  is  so  terrible  —  so  full  of  mean 
ing.  I'm  afraid  —  yes,  afraid  of  you,  too.  Some 
where  deep  in  me  I  have  a  conscience.  To-day  you 
appeal  to  me.  You  have  put  things  so  clearly  — 
things  I  have  thought  but  have  never  dared  speak 

18 


CAMILLA 


of.     To-day  you  seem  to  be  the  only  solution  of 
my  troubles " 

"Let  me  solve  them  then." 

"Wait.  To-day  you  almost  seem  to  be  the  only 
man  in  the  world  —  almost,  but  not  quite.  I'm 
not  sure  of  you  —  nor  sure  of  myself.  You  point 
a  way  to  freedom  from  this  —  perhaps  a  worse 
slavery  would  await  me  there.  Suppose  I  married 
you- 

"  Don't  marry  me  then,"  he  broke  in  wildly. 
"What  is  marriage?  A  word  for  a  social  obligation 
which  no  one  denies.  But  why  insist  on  it?  The 
real  obligation  is  a  moral  one  and  needs  no  rites 
to  make  it  binding.  I  love  you.  What  does  it 
matter  whether " 

His  meaning  dawned  on  her  slowly,  and  she  turned 
in  his  arms,  her  eyes  widening  with  bewilderment 
as  she  looked  as  though  fascinated  by  the  horror 
she  read  in  his  words.  He  felt  her  body  straighten 
in  his  arms  and  saw  that  the  blood  had  gone  from 
her  face. 

"Do  I  startle  you?  Don't  look  so  strangely. 
You  are  the  only  woman  in  the  world.  I  am  mad 
about  you.  You  know  that?  Can't  you  see?  Look 
up  at  me,  Camilla.  There's  a  girl  in  the  East  they 
want  me  to  marry  —  of  an  old  line  with  money  — 
but  I  swear  I'll  never  marry  her.  Never!" 

Slowly  she  disengaged  his  arms  and  put  the  chair 
between  them.  There  was  even  a  smile  on  her  lips. 

"You      mean  — that     I  — that     you "      She 

paused,  uncertain  of  her  words. 

19 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


"That  I'll  stick  to  you  until  Kingdom  Come," 
he  assented. 

Her  laugh  echoed  harshly  in  the  bare  room. 
"Whether  you  marry  the  other  girl  or  not?" 

"I'll  never  marry  the  other  girl,"  he  said  savagely, 
"never  see  her  again  if  you  say  so " 

He  took  a  step  toward  her,  but  she  held  up  her 
hand  as  though  warding  off  a  blow. 

"One  moment,"  she  said,  a  calm  taking  the  place 
of  her  forced  gayety,  her  voice  ringing  with  a  deep 
note  of  scorn.  "I  didn't  understand  at  first. 
Back  here  in  the  valley  we're  a  little  dull.  We 
learn  to  speak  well  or  ill  as  we  think.  At  least, 
we  learn  to  be  honest  with  ourselves,  and  we  try  to 
be  honest  with  others.  We  do  not  speak  fair  words 
and  lie  in  our  hearts.  Our  men  have  a  rougher 
bark  than  yours,  but  they're  sound  and  strong  in 
side."  She  drew  herself  to  her  full  height.  "A 
woman  is  safe  in  this  country  —  with  the  men 
of  this  country,  Mr.  Bent.  It  is  only 
when " 

"Camilla!  Forgive  me.  I  was  only  trying  you. 
I  will  do  whatever  you  say  —  I " 

She  walked  to  the  door  rapidly,  then  paused 
uncertainly,  leaning  against  the  door- jamb  and 
looking  down  the  street. 

"Will  you  go?"  she  murmured. 

"I  can't  — not  yet." 

"  You  must  —  at  once.  Jeff  Wray  is  coming 
here  —  now!" 

"What  have  I  to  do  with  him?" 

20 


CAMILLA 


"Nothing  —  only  if  he  guesses  what  you've  been 
saying  to  me,  I  won't  answer  for  him.  That's 
all." 

Bent  looked  up  with  a  quick  smile,  and  then  sat 
on  the  nearest  desk.  "I  suppose  I  ought  to  be 
frightened.  What?  Jeff  is  a  kind  of  a  'bad  man,' 
isn't  he?  But  I  can't  go  now,  Camilla.  Wouldn't 
be  the  sporting  thing,  you  know.  I  think  I'll  stay. 
Do  you  mind  if  I  smoke?" 

She  watched  the  approaching  figure  of  Jeff  for 
a  moment  irresolutely  and  then  turned  indoors. 
"Of  course,  I  can't  make  you  go,"  she  said,  "but  I 
have  always  understood  that  when  a  woman  ex 
pressed  a  wish  to  be  alone,  it  was  the  custom  of 
gentlemen ' ' 

"You  made  my  going  impossible,"  he  said  coolly. 
"Don't  forget  that.  I'll  go  after  a  while,  but  I 
won't  run.  You've  got  something  to  tell  Jeff 
Wray.  I  prefer  to  be  here  when  you  do  it." 

"I  didn't  say  I'd  tell  him,"  she  put  in  quickly. 
" I'm  not  going  to  tell  him.  Now  will  you  go? " 

"No." 

He  sat  on  a  desk,  swinging  one  long  leg  to  and 
fro  and  looking  out  of  the  open  door,  at  which  the 
figure  of  Jeff  presently  appeared.  The  newcomer 
took  off  his  hat  and  shuffled  in  uneasily,  but  his  wide 
stare  and  a  nod  to  Bent  showed  neither  surprise 
nor  ill-humor.  Indeed,  his  expression  gave  every 
sign  of  unusual  content.  He  spoke  to  Bent,  then 
gazed  dubiously  toward  the  teacher's  desk,  where 
Camilla,  apparently  absorbed  in  her  letter,  looked 

21 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


up  with  a  fine  air  of  abstraction,  nodded,  and  then 
went  on  with  her  writing. 

"Looks  sort  of  coolish  around  here,"  said  Jeff. 
"Hope  I  haven't  butted  into  an  Experience  Meeting 
or  anything."  He  laughed,  but  Bent  only  examined 
the  ash  of  his  cigarette  and  smiled.  "I  thought, 
Camilla,"  he  went  on,  "maybe  you'd  like  to  take 
a  ride  - 

Miss  Irwin  looked  up.  She  knew  every  modula 
tion  of  Jeff's  voice.  His  tone  was  quiet  —  as  it 
had  been  yesterday  —  but  in  it  was  the  same  note 
of  command  —  or  was  it  triumph?  She  glanced 
at  Cortland  Bent. 

"I'm  not  riding  to-day,"  she  said  quietly. 

"Not  with  Bent,  either?  That's  funny.  What 
will  people  think  around  here?  We've  sort  of  got 
used  to  the  idea  of  seeing  you  two  out  together  — 
kind  of  part  of  the  afternoon  scenery,  so  to  speak. 
Nothing  wrong,  is  there?" 

Bent  flushed  with  anger,  and  Camilla  marveled 
at  this  new  manifestation  of  Jeff's  instinct.  It 
almost  seemed  as  though  he  knew  what  had  hap 
pened  between  them  as  well  as  though  she  had  told 
him.  Jeff  laughed  softly  and  looked  from  one  to 
the  other  with  his  mildest  stare,  as  though  de 
lighted  at  the  discovery. 

Miss  Irwin  rose  and  put  her  letter  in  the  drawer 
of  the  desk.  "I  wish  you'd  go  —  both  of  you," 
she  said  quietly.  But  Wray  had  made  himself 
comfortable  in  a  chair  and  showed  no  disposition 
to  move. 


CAMILLA 


"I  thought  you  might  like  to  ride  out  to  the 
'Lone  Tree,"  he  said.  "You  know  Mr.  Bent  has 
leased  it  to  me?" 

"Yes,  he  told  me." 

"What  else  did  he  tell  you?" 

"Oh,  I  say,  Wray,"  Bent  broke  in,  "I  don't  see 
how  that  can  be  any  affair  of  yours." 

Jeff  Wray  wrapped  his  quirt  around  one  knee  and 
smiled  indulgently.  "Doesn't  seem  so,  does  it, 
Bent?"  he  said  coolly.  "But  it  really  is.  You 
see,  Camilla  —  Miss  Irwin  —  and  I  have  been 
friends  a  long  time  —  as  a  matter  of  fact,  we're 
sort  of  engaged " 

"Jeff!"  gasped  the  girl.  The  calmness  of  his 
effrontery  almost,  if  not  quite,  deprived  her  of 
speech.  "Even  if  it  were  true,  you  must  see  that 
it  can  hardly  interest " 

"I  thought  that  he  might  like  to  know.  I  haven't 
interfered  much  between  you  two,  but  I've  been 
thinking  about  you  some.  I  thought  it  might  be 
just  as  well  that  Mr.  Bent  understood  before  he 
went  away." 

Camilla  started  up,  stammered,  began  to  speak, 
then  sank  in  her  chair  again.  Bent  looked  coolly 
from  one  to  the  other. 

"There  seems  to  be  a  slight  difference  of  opinion," 
he  said. 

"Oh,  we're  engaged  all  right,"  Jeff  went  on. 
"That's  why  I  thought  I'd  better  tell  you  it  wouldn't 
be  any  use  for  you  to  try  to  persuade  Camilla  — 
that  is,  Miss  Irwin  —  to  go  to  New  York  with  you." 

23 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


Jeff  made  this  surprising  statement  with  the 
same  ease  with  which  he  might  have  dissuaded  a 
client  in  an  unprofitable  deal.  Miss  Irwin  became 
a  shade  paler,  Bent  a  shade  darker.  Such  intuition 
was  rather  too  precise  to  be  pleasant.  Neither  of 
them  replied.  Bent,  because  he  feared  to  trust 
himself  to  speak  —  Camilla,  because  her  tongue 
refused  obedience. 

"Oh,  I'm  a  pretty  good  guesser.  Camilla  told 
you  she  wasn't  going,  didn't  she?  I  thought  so. 
You  see,  that  wouldn't  have  done  at  all,  because 
I'd  have  had  to  go  all  the  way  East  to  bring  her 
back  again.  When  we're  married  of  course " 

"Jeff!"  The  girl's  voice,  found  at  last,  echoed  so 
shrilly  in  the  bare  room  that  even  Wray  was  startled 
into  silence.  He  had  not  seemed  aware  of  any  in 
delicacy  in  his  revelation,  but  each  moment  added 
to  the  bitterness  of  Miss  Irwin's  awakening.  Bent's 
indignity  had  made  her  hate  herself  and  despise 
the  man  who  had  offered  it.  She  thought  she  saw 
what  kind  of  wood  had  been  hidden  under  his  hand 
some  veneer  —  she  had  always  known  what  Jeff 
was  made  of.  The  fibre  was  there,  tough,  strong, 
and  ugly  as  ever,  but  it  was  not  rotten.  And  in 
that  hour  she  learned  a  new  definition  of  chivalry. 

"Jeff,  will  you  be  quiet?"  But  she  went  over  to 
him  and  put  her  hand  on  his  shoulder,  and  her  words 
came  slowly  and  very  distinctly,  as  she  looked 
over  Wray's  head  into  Cortland  Bent's  eyes.  "What 
Mr.  Wray  says  is  true.  I  intend  to  marry  him  when 
he  asks  me  to." 

24 


'  I  reckon  that  about  winds   up  all    your  loose  ends  around 
Mesa/  said  Jett'  cheerfully." 


CAMILLA 


Bent  bowed  his  head,  as  Jeff  rose,  the  girl's  hand 
in  his. 

"I  reckon  that  about  winds  up  all  your  loose  ends 
around  Mesa,  don't  it,  Bent?"  said  Jeff  cheer 
fully.  "When  are  you  leaving  town?" 

But  Bent  by  this  time  had  taken  up  his  cap,  and 
was  gone. 


CHAPTER  III 

NEW   YORK 

WONDERFUL  things  happened  in  the  year 
which  followed.  The  "Lone  Tree"  was 
a  bonanza.  Every  month  added  to  the 
value  of  the  discovery.  The  incredulous  came,  saw, 
and  were  conquered,  and  Mesa  City  was  a  "boom 
town"  again.  Jeff  Wray  hadn't  a  great  deal  to 
say  in  those  days.  His  brain  was  working  over 
time  upon  the  great  interlocking  scheme  of  financial 
enterprises  which  was  to  make  him  one  of  the  rich 
est  men  in  the  West.  He  spoke  little,  but  his  face 
wore  a  smile  that  never  came  off,  and  his  baby- 
blue  stare  was  more  vacuous  than  ever. 

And  yet,  as  month  followed  month  and  the 
things  happened  which  he  had  so  long  predicted  for 
himself  and  for  the  town,  something  of  his  old 
arrogance  slipped  away  from  him.  If  balked  ambi 
tion  and  injured  pride  had  made  him  boast  before, 
it  was  success  that  tamed  him.  There  was  no  time 
to  swagger.  Weighty  problems  gave  him  an  air 
of  seriousness  which  lent  him  a  dignity  he  had  never 
possessed.  And  if  sometimes  he  blustered  now, 
people  listened.  There  was  a  difference. 

As  the  time  for  her  wedding  approached,  for  the 
first  time  in  her  life  Camilla  felt  the  personality  of 

26 


NEW  YORK 


the  man.  Why  was  it  that  she  could  not  love  him? 
Since  that  hour  at  the  schoolhouse  when  Cortland 
Bent  had  shown  her  how  near  —  and  how  fearful 
—  could  be  the  spiritual  relation  between  a  woman 
and  a  man,  life  had  taken  a  different  meaning  to  her. 

Jeff's  was  a  curious  courtship.  He  made  love  to 
her  bunglingly,  and  she  realized  that  his  diffidence 
was  the  expression  of  a  kind  of  rustic  humility  which 
set  her  in  a  shrine  at  which  he  distantly  worshipped. 
He  seemed  most  like  the  Jeff  of  other  days  when  he 
was  talking  of  himself,  and  she  allowed  him  to  do 
this  by  the  hour,  listening,  questioning,  and  encour 
aging.  If  this  was  to  make  the  most  of  her  life, 
perhaps  it  might  be  as  well  to  get  used  to  the  idea. 
She  could  not  deny  that  she  was  interested.  Jeff's 
schemes  seemed  like  a  page  out  of  a  fairy  book, 
and,  whether  she  would  or  not,  she  went  along 
with  him.  There  seemed  no  limit  to  his  invention, 
and  there  was  little  doubt  in  his  mind,  or,  indeed, 
in  hers,  that  the  world  was  to  be  made  to  provide 
very  generously  for  them  both. 

It  was  on  the  eve  of  their  wedding  day  that  Jeff 
first  spoke  of  his  childhood. 

"I  suppose  you  know,  Camilla,  I  never  had  a 
father.  That  is,"  he  corrected,  "not  one  to  brag 
about.  My  mother  was  a  waitress  in  the  Frontier 
Hotel  at  Fort  Dodge.  She  died  when  I  was  born. 
That's  my  family  tree.  You  knew  it,  I  guess,  but 
I  thought  maybe  you'd  like  to  change  your  mind." 

He  looked  away  from  her.  The  words  came 
slowly,  and  there  was  a  note  of  heaviness  in  his 

27 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


voice.  She  realized  how  hard  it  was  for  him  to 
speak  of  these  things,  and  put  her  hand  confidently 
in  his. 

"Yes,  I  knew,"  she  said  softly.  "But  I  never 
weighed  that  against  you,  Jeff.  It  only  makes  me 
prouder  of  what  you  have  become."  And  then, 
after  a  pause,  "Did  you  never  hear  anything  about 
him?" 

"There  were  some  letters  written  before  I  was 
born.  I'll  show  them  to  you  some  day.  He  was 
from  New  York,  that's  all  I  know.  Maybe  you 
can  guess  now  why  I  didn't  like  Cort  Bent." 

Camilla  withdrew  her  hands  from  his  and  buried 
her  face  in  them,  while  Wray  sat  gloomily  gazing 
at  the  opposite  wall.  In  a  moment  she  raised  her 
head,  her  cheeks  burning. 

"Yes,  I  understand  now,"  she  muttered.  "He 
was  not  worth  bothering  about." 

***** 

And  now  they  were  at  the  hotel  in  New  York, 
where  Jeff  had  come  on  business.  The  Empire 
drawing  room  overlooked  Fifth  Avenue  and  the 
cross  street.  There  was  a  reception  room  in  the 
French  style,  a  dining  room  in  English  oak,  a  library 
(Flemish),  smoking  room  (Turkish),  a  hall  (Dutch), 
and  a  number  of  bedrooms,  each  a  reproduction  of 
a  celebrated  historical  apartment.  The  wall  hang 
ings  were  of  silk,  the  curtains  of  heavy  brocade,  the 
pictures  poor  copies  of  excellent  old  masters,  the  rugs 
costly;  and  the  fixtures  in  Camilla's  bathroom 
were  of  solid  silver. 

28 


NEW  YORK 


Camilla  stood  before  the  cheval  glass  in  her 
dressing  room  (Recamier)  trying  on,  with  the 
assistance  of  her  maid  and  a  modiste,  a  fetching 
hat  and  afternoon  costume.  Chairs,  tables,  and 
the  bed  in  her  own  sleeping  room  were  covered  with 
miscellaneous  finery. 

When  the  women  had  gone,  Camilla  dropped 
into  a  chair  in  the  drawing  room.  There  was  some 
thing  about  the  made-to-order  magnificence  which 
oppressed  her  with  its  emptiness.  Everything  that 
money  could  buy  was  hers  for  the  asking.  Her 
husband  was  going  to  be  fabulously  wealthy  —  every 
month  since  they  had  been  married  had  developed 
new  possibilities.  His  foresight  was  extraordinary, 
and  his  luck  had  become  a  by-word  in  the  West. 
Each  of  his  new  ventures  had  attracted  a  large 
following,  and  money  had  flowed  into  the  coffers 
of  the  company.  It  was  difficult  for  her  to  realize 
all  that  happened  in  the  wonderful  period  since  she 
had  sat  at  her  humble  desk  in  the  schoolhouse 
at  Mesa  City.  She  was  not  sure  what  it  was  that 
she  lacked,  for  she  and  Jeff  got  along  admirably, 
but  the  room  in  which  she  sat  seemed  to  be  one  ex 
pression  of  it  —  a  room  to  be  possessed  but  not 
enjoyed.  Their  good  fortune  was  so  brief  that 
it  had  no  perspective.  Life  had  no  personality. 
It  was  made  of  Things,  like  the  articles  in 
this  drawing  room,  each  one  agreeably  harmonious 
with  the  other,  but  devoid  of  associations, 
pleasant  or  unpleasant.  The  only  difference 
between  this  room  and  the  parlor  at  Mrs.  Bren- 

29 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


nan's  was  that  the  furniture  of  the  hotel  had  cost 
more  money. 

To  tell  the  truth,  Camilla  was  horribly  bored. 
She  had  proposed  to  spend  the  mornings,  when  Jeff 
was  downtown,  in  the  agreeable  task  of  providing 
herself  with  a  suitable  wardrobe.  But  she  found 
that  the  time  hung  heavily  on  her  hands.  The 
wives  of  Jeff's  business  associates  in  New  York 
had  not  yet  called.  Perhaps  they  never  would  call. 
Everything  here  spoke  of  wealth,  and  the  entrance 
of  a  new  millionaire  upon  the  scene  was  not  such 
a  rare  occurrence  as  to  excite  unusual  comment. 
She  peered  out  up  the  avenue  at  the  endless  tide 
of  wealth  and  fashion  which  passed  her  by,  and  she 
felt  very  dreary  and  isolated,  like  a  vacant  house 
from  which  old  tenants  had  departed  and  into  which 
new  ones  would  not  enter. 

She  was  in  this  mood  when  a  servant  entered. 
She  had  reached  the  point  when  even  this  interrup 
tion  was  welcome,  but  when  she  saw  that  the  man 
bore  a  card  tray  her  interest  revived,  and  she 
took  up  the  bit  of  pasteboard  with  a  short  sigh  of 
relief.  She  looked  at  it,  turned  it  over  in  her 
fingers,  her  blood  slowing  a  little,  then  rushing  hotly 
to  her  temples. 

Cortland  Bent!  She  let  the  card  fall  on  the  table 
beside  her. 

"Tell  him  that  I  am  not '  she  paused  and 

glanced  out  of  the  window.  The  quick  impulse 
was  gone.  "Tell  him  —  to  come  up,"  she  finished. 

When  the  page  disappeared  she  glanced  about 

30 


NEW  YORK 


the  room,  then  hurried  to  the  door  to  recall  him, 
but  he  had  turned  the  corner  into  the  corridor 
outside,  and  the  message  was  on  its  way  to  a 
lower  floor. 

She  paused,  irresolute,  then  went  in  again,  closing 
the  outside  door  behind  her.  What  had  she  done? 
A  message  of  welcome  to  Cortland  Bent,  the  one 
person  in  the  world  she  had  promised  herself  she 
should  never  see  again;  her  husband's  enemy,  her 
own  because  he  was  her  husband's;  her  own,  too, 
because  he  had  given  her  pride  a  wound  from  which 
it  had  not  yet  recovered!  What  should  she  do? 
She  moved  toward  the  door  leading  to  her  dress 
ing  room  —  to  pause  again. 

What  did  it  matter  after  all?  Jeff  wouldn't 
care.  She  laughed.  Why  should  he?  He  could 
afford  to  be  generous  with  the  man  who  had  lost 
the  fortune  he  now  possessed.  He  had,  too,  an 
implicit  confidence  in  her  own  judgment,  and  never 
since  they  had  been  married  had  he  questioned  an 
action  or  motive  of  hers.  As  for  herself  —  that  was 
another  matter.  She  tossed  her  head  and  looked 
at  herself  in  her  mirror.  Should  she  not  even 
welcome  the  opportunity  to  show  Bent  how  small 
a  place  he  now  held  in  her  memory?  The  mirror 
told  her  she  was  handsome,  but  she  still  lingered 
before  it,  arranging  her  hair,  when  her  visitor  was 
announced. 

He  stood  with  his  hands  behind  his  back  studying 
the  portrait  over  the  fireplace,  turning  at  the  sound 
of  her  voice. 

31 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


"It's  very  nice  of  you  to  see  me,"  he  said  slowly. 
"How  long  have  you  been  here?" 

"A  few  weeks  only.     Won't  you  sit  down?" 

A  warm  color  had  come  to  her  cheeks  as  she 
realized  that  he  was  carefully  scrutinizing  her  from 
head  to  heel. 

"Of  course  we're  very  much  honored "  she 

began. 

"I  can't  tell  you  how  glad  I  am  to  see  you,"  he 
broke  in  warmly.  "I  was  tempted  to  write  you  a 
dozen  times,  but  your  engagement  and  marriage 
to  Wray  and"  —  he  paused — "the  trouble  about 
the  mine  seemed  to  make  it  difficult,  somehow." 

"I'm  sure  my  husband  bears  you  no  ill-will." 

He  gave  a  short  laugh.  "There's  no  reason  why 
he  should.  There's  nothing  for  him  to  be  upset 
about.  He  got  the  fortune  that  should  —  which 
might  have  been  mine  —  to  say  nothing  of  the 

girl- 

"  Perhaps  we  had  better  leave  the  girl  out  of  it," 
she  put  in  calmly.  "Even  time  hasn't  explained 
that  misunderstanding." 

He  shrugged  a  shoulder  expressively.  "As  you 
please.  I'll  not  parade  any  ghosts  if  I  can  help  it. 
I'm  too  happy  to  see  you.  You're  more  wonderful 
than  ever.  Really  I  don't  believe  I  should  have 
known  you.  You're  changed  somehow.  I  wonder 
what  it  is?" 

"Prosperity?"  she  suggested. 

"I'm  not  sure  I  feel  at  home  with  you.  You're 
so  matured,  so  —  so  punctilious  and  modish." 


NEW  YORK 


"You  wouldn't  have  me  wear  a  short  skirt  and 
a  sombrero?"  she  said  with  a  slow  smile. 

"No,  no.  It  is  not  what  you  wear  so  much  as 
what  you  are.  You  are  really  the  great  lady.  I 
think  I  knew  it  there  in  the  West." 

She  glanced  around  the  room. 

"This?"  she  queried.  "This  was  Jeff's  idea." 
And  then,  as  the  possible  disloyalty  occurred  to 
her,  "You  know  I  would  much  have  preferred  a 
quieter  place.  Fine  feathers  don't  always  make 
fine  birds." 

"But  fine  birds  can  be  no  less  fine  whatever  they 
wear."  There  was  a  pause,  and  then  he  asked: 

"How  long  will  you  be  here?" 

"All  winter,  I  think.  My  husband  has  business 
in  New  York." 

"Yes,  I  know.  Mesa  City  can  spare  him  best 
at  this  season." 

Bent  took  up  an  ivory  paper  cutter  from  the 
table  and  sat  turning  it  over  in  his  fingers.  "I 
hope  —  I  really  hope  we  may  be  friends,  Mrs.  Wray. 
I  think  perhaps  if  you'll  let  me  I  can  be  of  service 
to  you  here.  I  don't  think  that  there  is  a  chance 
that  I  can  forget  your  husband's  getting  the  '  Lone 
Tree'  away  from  me.  It's  pretty  hard  to  have  a 
success  like  that  at  the  tips  of  one's  fingers  and  not 
be  able  to  grasp  it.  I've  been  pretty  sick  about  it, 
and  the  governor  threatened  to  disown  me.  But 
he  seems  to  have  taken  a  fancy  to  your  husband. 
I  believe  that  they  have  some  business  relations. 
The  fifty  thousand  dollars  we  got  in  the  final  settle- 

33 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


ment  salved  his  wounds  I  think.  Your  husband 
has  the  law  on  his  side  and  that's  all  there  is  to  it. 
I'm  glad  he  has  it  for  your  sake,  though,  especially 
as  it  has  given  me  a  chance  to  see  you  again." 

"You're  very  generous,"  she  said.  "I'm  sorry. 
It  has  worried  me  a  great  deal." 

"Oh,  well,  let's  say  no  more  about  it,"  he  said 
more  cheerfully.  "I'm  so  glad  that  you're  to  be 
here.  What  do  you  think  of  my  little  burg?  Does 
it  amuse  you  at  all?  What?  Have  you  met  many 
people,  or  don't  you  want  to  meet  them?  I'd  like 
you  to  know  my  family  —  my  aunt,  Mrs.  Rumsen, 
especially.  She's  a  bit  of  a  grenadier,  but  I  know 
you'll  get  along.  She  always  says  what  she  thinks, 
so  you  mustn't  mind.  She's  quite  the  thing  here. 
Makes  out  people's  lists  for  them  and  all  that  kind 
of  thing.  Won't  you  come  and  dine  with  the 
governor  some  time?" 

"Perhaps  it  will  be  time  enough  when  we're 
asked " 

"Oh  —  er  —  of  course.  I  forgot.  I'll  ask  Gladys 
—  that's  my  sister  —  to  call  at  once." 

"Please  don't  trouble." 

Try  as  she  might  to  present  an  air  of  indifference, 
down  in  her  heart  she  was  secretly  delighted  at  his 
candid,  friendly  attitude.  No  other  could  have 
so  effectually  salved  the  sudden  searing  wound  he 
had  once  inflicted.  To-day  it  was  difficult  to'believe 
him  capable  of  evil.  He  had  tried  to  forget  the 
past.  Why  should  not  she?  There  was  another 
girl.  Perhaps  their  engagement  had  been  announced. 

34 


NEW  YORK 


She  knew  she  was  treading  on  dangerous  ground, 
but  she  ventured  to  ask  him. 

"Gretchen?"  he  replied.  "Oh,  Lord,  no!  Not 
yet.  You  see  she  has  some  ideas  of  her  own  on  the 
subject,  and  it  takes  at  least  two  to  make  a  bargain. 
Miss  Janney  is  a  fine  sport.  Life  is  a  good  deal  of  a 
joke  with  her,  as  it  is  to  me,  but  neither  of  us  feels 
like  carrying  it  as  far  as  matrimony.  We  get  on 
beautifully.  She's  frightfully  rich.  I  suppose  I'll 
be,  too,  some  day.  What's  the  use?  It's  a  sheer 
waste  of  raw  material.  She  has  a  romantic  sort 
of  an  idea  that  she  wants  a  poor  man  —  the  sort 
of  chap  she  can  lift  out  of  a  gray  atmosphere.  And 

I "  His  voice  grew  suddenly  sober.  "You 

won't  believe  that  I,  too,  had  the  same  kind  of 
notion." 

It  was  some  moments  before  she  understood  what 
he  meant,  but  the  silence  which  followed  was  expres 
sive.  He  did  not  choose  that  she  should  misunder^ 
stand. 

"Yes,"  he  added,  "I  mean  you." 

She  laughed  nervously.  "You  didn't  ask  me  to 
marry  you?" 

"No.  But  I  might  have  explained  why  I  didn't 
if  you  had  given  me  time.  I  don't  think  I  realized 
what  it  meant  to  me  to  leave  you  until  I  learned 
that  I  had  to.  Perhaps  it  isn't  too  late  to  tell 
you  now." 

She  was  silent,  and  so  he  went  on. 

"I  was  engaged  to  be  married.  I  have  been  since 
I  was  a  boy.  It  was  a  family  affair.  Both  of  us 

35 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


protested,  but  my  father  and  hers  had  set  their 
hearts  on  it.  My  governor  swore  he'd  cut  me  off 
unless  I  did  as  he  wished.  And  he's  not  a  man  to 
break  his  word.  I  was  afraid  of  him.  I  was  weak, 
Camilla.  I'm  not  ashamed  to  tell  you  the  truth. 
I  knew  unless  I  made  good  at  the  mine  that  I  should 
have  nothing  to  offer  you.  So  I  thought  if  I  could 
get  you  to  come  East,  stay  for  a  while,  and  meet 
my  father,  that  time  might  work  out  our  salvation." 

She  got  up  hurriedly  and  walked  to  the  window. 
"I  can't  see  that  you  can  do  any  good  teljing  me  this. 
It  means  so  little,"  she  stammered. 

"Only  to  justify  myself.  I  want  to  try  and  make 
it  possible  for  you  to  understand  how  things  were 
with  me  then  —  how  they  are  now." 

"No,  no.     It  can  do  no  good." 

"Let  me  finish,"  he  said  calmly.  "It  was  the 
other  girl  I  was  thinking  about.  I  was  still  pledged 
to  her.  I  could  have  written  her  for  my  release 
—  but  matters  came  to  a  crisis  rather  suddenly. 
And  then  you  told  me  of  your  engagement  to  Mr. 
Wray.  You  see,  after  that  I  didn't  care  what 
happened."  He  paused,  leaning  with  one  hand 
on  the  table,  his  head  bent.  "Perhaps  I  ought  not 
to  speak  to  you  in  this  way  now.  But  it  was  on 
your  own  account.  I  don't  know  what  I  said  to 
you.  I  only  remember  that  I  did  not  ask  you  to 
marry  me,  but  that  I  wanted  you  with  me  always." 

His  voice  sounded  very  far  away  to  Camilla,  like 
a  message  from  another  life  she  had  lived  so  long 
ago  that  it  seemed  almost  a  message  from  the  dead. 

36 


NEW  YORK 


She  did  not  know  whether  what  she  most  felt  was 
happiness  or  misery.  The  one  thing  she  was  sure 
of  v/as  that  he  had  no  right  to  be  speaking  to  her 
in  this  way  and  that  she  had  no  right  to  be  listening. 
But  still  she  listened.  His  words  sank  almost  to 
a  whisper,  but  she  heard.  "I  wanted  you  to  be 
with  me  always.  I  knew  afterward  that  I  had  never 
loved  any  woman  but  you — God  help  me  —  that  I 

never  could  love  any  other  woman "  He  stopped 

again.     In   her   corner   Camilla   was   crying   softly 

—  tears  of  pity  for  him,  for  the  ashes  of  their  dead. 
"Don't,  dear,"  he  said  gently.     She  thought  he 

was  coming  forward  and  raised  her  head  to  pro 
test,  but  she  saw  that  he  still  stood  by  the  table, 
his  back  toward  her.  She  turned  one  look  of 
mute  appeal,  which  he  did  not  see,  in  his  direction, 
and  then  rose  quickly. 

"You  must  never  speak  in  this  way  again,"  she 
said,  with  a  surer  note.  "Never.  I  should  not 
have  listened.  It  is  my  fault.  But  I  have  been  so 

—  so  glad  to  hear  that  —  you  didn't  mean  what 
you  said.     God  knows  I  forgive  you,  and  I  only 
hope    you    can    understand  —  how    it    was  —  with 
me.     You    had    been    so    friendly  —  so    clean.     It 
wounded  me  —  horribly.     It  made  me  lose  my  faith 
in  all  things,  and  I  wanted  to  keep  you  —  as  a 
friend." 

"I  think  I  may  still  be  a  friend." 

"I  hope  so-  She  emerged  diffidently  and 

laid  her  hand  gently  on  his  arm.  "If  you  want 
to  be  my  friend  you  must  forget." 

37 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


"I'll  try.  I  have  tried.  That  was  easier  this 
morning  than  it  is  this  afternoon.  It  will  be  harder 
to-night  —  harder  still  to-morrow."  He  gave  a 
short  laugh  and  turned  away  from  her  toward  the 
fireplace  where  he  stood,  watching  the  gray  embers. 

"Oh,  people  don't  die  of  this  sort  of  thing,"  he 
muttered. 

It  was  almost  with  an  air  of  unconcern  that  she 
began  rearranging  the  Beauties  on  the  table,  speaking 
with  such  a  genuine  spirit  of  raillery  that  he  turned 
to  look  at  her. 

"Oh,  it  isn't  nearly  as  bad  as  you  think  it  is. 
A  man  is  never  quite  so  madly  in  love  that  he  can't 
forget.  You've  been  dreaming.  I  was  different 
from  the  sort  of  girls  you  were  used  to.  You  were 
in  love  with  the  mountains,  and  mistook  me  for 
background." 

"No.  There  wasn't  any  background,"  he  broke 
in.  "There  was  never  anything  in  the  picture  but 
you.  I  know.  It's  the  same  now." 

"Sh  —  I  must  not  let  you  speak  to  me  so.  If 
you  do,  I  must  go  away  from  New  York  —  or  you 
must." 

"You  wouldn't  care." 

She  could  make  no  reply  to  that,  and  attempted 
none.  When  the  flowers  were  arranged  she  sat 
on  the  edge  of  the  table  facing  him.  "Perhaps  it 
would  be  the  better  way  for  me  to  go  back  to  the 
West,"  she  said,  "but  New  York  is  surely  big  enough 
to  hold  us  both  without  danger  of  your  meeting  me 
too  often.  And  I  have  another  idea,"  her  smile 


NEW  YORK 


came  slowly,  with  difficulty,  "when  you  see  enough 
of  me  in  your  own  city,  you  will  be  glad  to  forget 
me  whether  you  want  to  or  not.  Perhaps  you  may 
meet  me  among  your  own  kind  of  people  —  your 
own  kind  of  girls,  at  dinners,  or  at  dances.  You 
don't  really  know  me  very  well,  after  all.  Wouldn't 
it  bother  you  if  from  sheer  awkwardness  I  spilled  my 
wine  or  said  'yes,  ma'am,'  or  'no,  ma'am,'  to  my  hos 
tess,  not  because  I  wanted  to,  but  because  I  was  too 
frightened  to  think  of  anything  else?  Or  mistook 
the  butler  for  my  host?  Or  stepped  on  somebody's 
toes  in  a  ballroom.  You  know  I  don't  dance  very 
well .  Suppose ' ' 

"Oh,  what's  the  use,  Camilla? "he  broke  in  an 
grily.  "You  don't  deceive  anybody.  You  know  that 
kind  of  thing  wouldn't  make  any  difference  to  me." 

"But  it  might  to  other  people.  You  wouldn't 
fancy  seeing  me  ridiculous."  He  turned  to  the 
fire  again,  and  she  perceived  that  her  warning  hadn't 
merited  the  dignity  of  a  reply,  but  her  attitude  and 
the  lighter  key  in  which  her  tone  was  pitched  had 
saved  the  situation.  When  he  spoke  again,  all 
trace  of  his  discomposure  had  vanished. 

"Oh,  I  suppose  I'll  survive.  I've  got  a  name  for 
nerve  of  a  certain  kind,  and  nobody  shall  say  I  ran 
away  from  a  woman.  I  don't  suppose  there's  any 
use  of  my  trying  to  like  your  husband.  You  see, 
I'm  frank  with  you.  But  I'll  swallow  a  good  deal 
to  be  able  to  be  near  you." 

There  was  a  silence  during  which  she  keenly 
searched  his  face. 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


"You  mustn't  dislike  Jeff.  I  can't  permit  that. 
You  can't  blame  him  for  being  lucky " 

"Lucky?  Yes,  I  suppose  you  might  call  it 
luck.  Didn't  you  know  how  your  husband  and 
Mulrennan  got  that  mine?" 

She  rose,  her  eyes  full  of  a  new  wonder  and 
curiosity. 

"They  leased  it.  Everything  was  legally  done," 
she  said. 

"Oh,  yes.     Legally "  he  paused. 

"Go  on  —  go  on." 

"What  is  the  use?" 

"I  must  know  —  everything." 

"He  never  told  you?  I  think  I  know  why. 
Because  your  code  and  his  are  different.  The  con 
sciences  of  some  men  are  satisfied  if  they  keep  their 
affairs  within  the  letter  of  the  law.  But  there's 
a  moral  law  which  has  nothing  to  do  with  the 
courts.  He  didn't  tell  you  because  he  knew  you 
obeyed  a  different  precept." 

"  What  did  he  do?    Won't  you  tell  me?  " 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE   FORBIDDEN   WAY 

HE  CAME  forward  and  stood  facing  her,  one 
hand  clutching  the  back  of  a  chair,  his 
eyes  blazing  with  newly  kindled  resent 
ment.  "Yes,  I  will  tell  you.  It's  right  for  you  to 
know.  There  was  a  man  in  my  employ  who  had  a 
fancied  grievance  against  my  foreman.  He  had  no 
just  cause  for  complaint.  I  found  that  out  and 
told  Harbison  to  fire  him.  If  Harbison  had  obeyed 
orders  there  would  have  been  a  different  story  to 
tell  about  the  'Lone  Tree.'  But  my  foreman  took 
pity  on  him  because  he  had  a  family;  then  tried  to 
get  him  started  right  again.  The  man  used  to  work 
extra  time  at  night,  sometimes  with  a  shift  and  some 
times  alone.  And  one  night  in  the  small  gallery  at 
the  hundred-foot  level  he  found  the  vein  we  had 
been  looking  for.  He  was  a  German,  Max  Reimer, 
by  name " 

"Max Reimer,"  she  repeated  mechanically. 

"Alone  there  in  that  cavern  he  thought  out  the 
plan  which  afterward  resulted  in  putting  me  out  of 
business.  He  quickly  got  some  timbers  together 
and  hid  the  hole  he'd  made.  This  was  easy,  for 
the  steps  and  railing  of  the  winze  needed  supports 
and  planking.  He  put  in  a  blast  farther  over  and 
4  41 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


hid  the  gold-bearing  rock  —  all  but  a  few  of  the 
pieces.  These  he  took  out  in  the  pockets  of  his 
overalls  and  carried  them  to  Jeff  Wray " 

"Jeff  — 

"Your  husband  called  in  Pete  Mulrennan,  and 
they  talked  it  over.  Then  one  night  Pete  and  Max 
crept  up  to  the  mine,  got  past  the  watchman,  and 
Max  showed  Pete  what  he'd  found.  I  learned  all 
this  from  Harbison  after  they  let  Max  loose." 

"Let  him  loose?     What  do  you  mean?" 

"I'll  tell  you.  Max  wanted  a  lump  sum  in  cash. 
They  laughed  at  him  —  chiefly  because  they  didn't 
have  the  money  to  pay.  Then  he  wanted  a  per 
centage  bigger  than  they  wanted  to  give.  When 
they  temporized  he  got  ugly,  swore  he'd  rather 
run  his  chances  with  Harbison  and  me,  but  he 
never  had  an  opportunity 

"You  don't  mean ?"  she  gasped. 

"Wray  and  Mulrennan  lured  Reimer  to  a  room 
over  the  saloon  and  got  up  a  fight;  they  put  him 
out,  gagged  and  trussed  him  like  a  fowl,  and  left 
him  there  until  Jeff  Wray  had  closed  the  deal  with 
me.  That's  how  your  husband  got  my  mine." 

"It  can't  be,"  she  stammered.  "Yes  —  yes. 
And  Reimer?" 

"They  hid  him  for  two  weeks,  until  they  brought 
him  to  terms." 

"I  remember,"  she  said,  passing  her  hand  over  her 
brow.  " Reimer 's  boy  was  in  my  school.  They  missed 
old  Max.  They  thought  he  had  deserted  them.  What 

a  horrible  thing!     And  Jeff  —  my  husband " 

42 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


"That  is  what  people  call  Jeff  Wray's  luck," 
he  said,  and  then  added  grimly,  "and  my  misfor 
tune." 

"But  the  law?"  she  said.  "Was  there  no  way 
in  which  you  could  prove  the  —  the " 

"The  fraud?"  he  said  brutally.  "Oh,  yes. 
The  Law!  Do  you  know  who  impersonates  the 
Law  in  Mesa  City?  Pete  Mulrennan!  He's  judge, 
court,  and  jury.  We  had  the  best  lawyer  in  Denver. 
But  Lawrence  Berkely  had  done  his  work  too  well. 
There's  a  suit  still  pending,  but  we  haven't  a  show. 
Good  God,  Camilla !  do  you  mean  to  say  you  heard 
nothing  of  all  this?" 

"Nothing,"  she  said.  "Nothing.  When  I  heard 
of  the  suit  and  questioned  Jeff  he  —  he  said  it 
was  maliciousness,  jealousy,  disappointment,  and  I 
believed  him." 

He  turned  away  from  her  and  paced  the  floor. 
"He  was  right.  It  was  all  of  these.  But  there  was 
something  else " 

"Oh,  I  know,"  she  broke  in.  "It  was  what  I 
am  feeling  now  —  the  sense  of  a  wrong.  But  you 

forget "  She  got  up  and  faced  him,  groping 

vaguely  for  an  extenuating  circumstance.  "That 
sort  of  thing  has  been  done  in  the  West  before.  A 
successful  mine  is  all  a  matter  of  luck.  Max 
Reimer's  find  might  have  only  been  a  pocket.  In 
that  case  you  would  have  been  the  gainer,  and  Jeff 
would  have  lost." 

"That's  sophistry.  I  can't  blame  you  for  de 
fending  your  husband.  Mines  have  been  leased 

43 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


and  bought  on  theory  —  with  a  chance  to  win,  a 
chance  to  lose  —  for  the  mere  love  of  a  gamble. 
There  was  no  gamble  here.  The  gold  ore  was 
there  —  one  had  only  to  look.  There  never  has 
been  anything  like  it  since  Cripple  Creek.  It  was 
mine.  Jeff  Wray  wanted  it  —  so  he  took  it  —  by 
force." 

She  had  sunk  on  the  settee  between  the  windows, 
her  face  buried  in  her  hands,  and  was  trying  to 
think.  All  this,  the  hired  magnificence,  the  empty 
show,  the  damask  she  was  sitting  on,  the  rings  on 
her  hands,  her  clothing  even,  belonged  by  every  law 
of  decency  and  morality  to  the  man  who  stood  there 
before  her.  And  the  wrong  she  had  so  long  cherished 
in  her  heart  against  him  was  as  nothing  to  the  injury 
her  husband  had  done  to  him.  She  knew  nothing 
of  the  law,  cared  nothing  for  it.  All  she  could 
think  of  were  the  facts  of  the  case  as  he  had  presented 
them.  Cortland  told  the  truth,  she  recognized 
it  in  everything  he  had  said,  in  the  ringing  note  of 
his  voice,  the  clear  light  of  his  eye,  the  resentment 
of  a  nature  that  had  been  tried  too  far.  A  hundred 
forgotten  incidents  were  now  remembered  —  Jeff's 
reticence  about  the  law-suit,  Max  Reimer's  dis 
appearance,  the  many  secret  conferences  with 
Mulrennan.  She  wondered  that  suspicion  of  Jeff 
had  never  entered  her  mind  before.  She  realized 
now  more  poignantly  than  ever  that  she  had  been 
moving  blindly,  supinely,  under  the  spell  of  a  person 
ality  stronger  than  her  own.  She  recalled  the  scene 
in  the  canon  when,  beside  herself  with  shame  and 

44 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


mortification,  she  had  struck  him  in  the  face  and 
he  had  only  laughed  at  her,  as  he  would  have  laughed 
at  a  rebellious  child.  In  that  moment  she  had  hated 
him.  The  tolerance  that  had  come  later  had  been 
defensive  —  a  defense  of  her  pride.  When  Cort- 
land  Bent  had  left,  she  had  flown  like  a  wounded 
swallow  to  the  hawk's  nest,  glad  of  any  refuge  from 
the  ache  at  her  heart. 

She  raised  her  head  and  sought  Bent's  eyes  with 
her  own.  A  while  ago  it  had  seemed  so  easy  to 
speak  to  him.  He  had  been  so  gentle  with  her,  and 
his  reticence  had  made  her  own  indifference  possible. 
He  had  gone  back  to  the  dead  fire  again  as  though 
to  find  there  a  phenix  of  his  lost  hope,  and  was 
leaning  with  an  elbow  on  the  mantel,  his  head 
bowed  in  subjection.  He  had  put  his  fetters  on 
again  as  though  to  make  her  understand  that  his 
sharp  indictment  of  her  husband  had  not  been 
intended  to  include  the  woman  he  loved.  Pain 
fully  she  rose  and  took  a  step  toward  him,  and, 
when  she  spoke,  her  voice  was  low  and  constrained, 
for  her  thoughts  came  with  difficulty. 

"You  are  right.  There  is  a  moral  code  —  a 
law  of  conscience.  In  my  heart  I  know  that  no 
matter  what  other  men  have  done  in  the  West  in 
their  madness  for  gold,  the  fever  for  wealth,  nothing 
the  law  holds  will  make  Jeff's  responsibility  to  you 
any  the  less  in  my  sight.  I  —  I  did  not  know. 
You  believe  me,  don't  you?  I  did  not  know.  Even 
if  I  had  known,  perhaps  it  would  not  have  made  any 
difference.  But  I  am  sure  of  one  thing  —  I  could 

45 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


never  have  married  a  man  to  live  on  what  he  had 
stolen  from  another."  As  he  turned  toward  her 
she  put  her  hands  over  her  face.  "Oh,  I  am  shamed 
—  shamed.  Perhaps  I  could  have  done  something ; 
I  would  have  tried.  You  know  that  I  would  have 
tried  —  don't  you?" 

"Yes,  yes,  I  know.  I  would  not  have  told,  I 
would  not  have  made  you  unhappy  —  but  it  mad 
dens  me  to  see  you  here  with  what  is  mine  —  his 
wife."  He  took  her  hands  down  and  made  her 
look  in  his  face.  "Don't  think  harshly  of  me.  It 
isn't  the  money.  If  you  could  have  had  it  —  if 
you  didn't  have  to  share  it  with  him  —  can't  you 
understand?" 

But  she  would  not  look  at  him,  and  only  mur 
mured,  "I  understand  —  I  understand  many  things 
I  did  not  know  before.  But  the  one  thing  that 
seems  most  important  is  that  I  am  his  wife.  What 
ever  he  has  done  to  others,  he  has  been  very  good, 
very  gentle  and  kind  to  me." 

He  dropped  her  hands  and  turned  violently  away. 
"How  could  you?"  he  groaned.  "How  could  you 
have  married  him?" 

"God  knows!" 

The  words  were  wrung  from  her  quickly,  like  the 
sudden  dropping  of  a  burden  which  shocked  by 
the  noise  of  its  impact  before  she  was  conscious  of 
its  loss.  She  turned  in  the  same  moment  and 
looked  at  him,  hoping  that  he  had  not  heard  her. 
But  before  she  could  prevent  him  he  had  caught  her 
in  his  arms  and  held  her  close  to  his  body,  so  that, 

46 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


struggle  as  she  might,  there  was  no  chance  for  her 
to  escape.  And  in  his  eyes  she  saw  the  gleam  of 
an  old  delight,  a  bright,  wild  spark  among  the 
embers  of  bitterness. 

"Camilla!"  he  whispered.  "I  know  now.  God 
forgive  me  that  I  did  not  know  before  —  out  there 
in  the  schoolhouse,  when  you  gave  yourself  to  him. 
You  loved  me  then  —  you  love  me  now.  Isn't 
that  why  you  tremble,  Camilla?  You  need  not 
speak.  Your  heart  is  close  to  mine  and  I  can 
read " 

"No,  no,  no,"  she  murmured.  "It  is  not  true. 
You  must  not.  I  did  not  mean  —  what  I  said, 
you  misunderstood " 

"Once  I  misunderstood.  I  won't  make  the  same 
mistake  again.  It  was  I  who  found  you  there, 
parching  in  the  desert,  and  taught  you  how  to 
grow  —  who  showed  you  that  life  was  something 
more  than  the  barren]  waste  you  had  found  it. 
Won't  you  forgive  me?  I  was  a  fool  —  and 
worse.  Look  up  at  me,  Camilla,  dear.  You  were 
mine  out  there  before  you  were  his.  At  least  a 
half  of  what  Jeff  Wray  has  stolen  from  me  —  your 
spiritual  side " 

At  the  sound  of  her  husband's  name  she  raised 
her  head  and  looked  up  at  him  in  a  daze.  He  caught 
her  again  madly,  and  his  lips  even  brushed  her  cheek, 
but  she  started  from  his  arms  and  sped  the  length 
of  the  room  away  from  him. 

"Camilla!" 

"No,  no.  You  must  not."  She  stood  facing 

47 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


him,  wildly  pleading.  "Don't  come  near  me,  Cort. 
Is  this  the  way  you  are  going  to  try  to  forget  — 
the  way  you  will  teach  me  to  forget?  " 

"I  didn't  know  then  —  I  want  you,  Camilla " 

As  he  came  forward  she  retreated  to  the  door 
of  the  library  and  put  her  hand  on  the  knob.  She 
did  not  hear  the  soft  patter  of  feet  on  the  other  side. 

"Then  I  must  go,"  she  said  decisively. 

He  stopped,  looked  at  her  blankly,  then  turned 
away. 

"I  suppose  you're  right,"  he  said  quietly.  "For 
give  me.  I  had  almost  forgotten." 

He  slowly  paced  the  room  away  from  her  and, 
his  head  in  his  hands,  sank  in  a  distant  chair.  He 
heard  her  sharp  sigh  and  the  sound  of  her  footsteps 
as  she  gathered  courage  and  came  forward.  But 
he  did  not  move,  and  listened  with  the  dull  ears 
of  a  broken  man  from  whom  all  hope  has  de 
parted. 

"It  is  going  to  be  harder  than  I  thought.  I 
hoped  at  least  that  I  could  keep  what  was  in  my 
heart  a  secret.  When  my  secret  was  my  own  it 
did  not  seem  as  if  I  was  doing  any  injustice  to  —  to 
Jeff.  It  was  my  heart  that  was  breaking  —  not 
his.  What  did  my  secrets  matter  as  long  as  I  did 
my  duty?  But  now  that  you  share  the  burden  I 
know  that  I  am  doing  him  a  great  wrong  —  a  greater 
wrong  even  than  he  has  done  to  you.  I  can't  blame 
you  for  coming  here.  It  is  hard  to  forgive  a  wrong 
like  that.  But  with  me  it  is  different.  No 
matter  what  Jeff  has  done,  what  he  may  do, 

48 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


my  duty  is  very  clear  —  my  duty  to  him,  and 
even  to  you.  I  don't  know  just  how  —  I  must 
have  time  to  think  it  out  for  myself.  One  thing 
is  certain:  I  must  not  see  you  again." 

He  waved  a  hand  in  deprecation.  "That  is  so 
easy  to  say.  You  shall  see  me  again,"  he  threat 
ened.  "I  will  not  give  you  up." 

"You  must!  I  will  find  some  excuse  to  leave  New 
York." 

"I'll  follow  you,"  doggedly.     "You're  mine." 

She  paused  in  dismay.  Were  all  the  odds  to 
be  against  her?  A  sudden  terror  gripped  her  heart 
and  left  her  supine.  She  summoned  her  strength 
with  an  effort. 

"Cort!"  she  cried  desperately.  "You  must  not 
speak  to  me  like  that.  I  will  not  listen.  You  don't 
know  what  you  are  saying." 

"I  don't  care  what  I'm  saying  —  you  have  driven 
me  mad."  As  he  rose,  she  retreated,  still  facing 
him,  her  lips  pale,  her  eyes  bright,  her  face  drawn 
but  resolved. 

"And  I,"  she  said  clearly,  "I  am  sane  again. 
If  you  follow  —  I  will  ring.  Do  you  hear?" 

Her  hand  sought  the  wall,  then  was  arrested  in 
mid  air.  A  sound  of  voices,  the  ringing  of  a  bell, 
and  the  soft  patter  of  a  servant's  steps  in  the  corridor 
brought  Cortland  Bent  to  his  senses. 

"It's  Jeff,"  she  whispered  breathlessly;  and  then 
with  a  quiet  air  of  self-command,  the  dignity  of  a 
well-bred  hostess,  "Will  you  sit  down,  Mr.  Bent? 
I  will  ring  for  tea." 

49 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


In  the  shadowed  doorway  a  tall  figure  stood. 

"Why,  Jeff,"  said  Camilla  coolly,  "you're  early, 
aren't  you  ?  I  thought ' ' 

She  rose  as  she  realized  that  the  gentleman  in 
the  doorway  wore  a  frock  coat  —  a  garment  Jeff 
affected  to  despise  —  and  that  the  hair  at  his  temples 
was  white.  "I  beg  your  pardon,"  she  murmured. 

The  gentleman  smiled  and  came  forward  into  the 
room  with  outstretched  hand. 

"I  am  General  Bent.  Is  this  Mrs.  Wray?  Your 
husband  is  coming  along." 

Jeff  entered  from  the  corridor  at  this  moment. 
"Hello,  Camilla!  The  General  was  kind  enough 
to  say  he  wanted  to  meet  you,  so  he  brought  me  up 
town  in  his  machine." 

The  eyes  of  both  newcomers  fell  on  Cortland 
Bent,  who  emerged  from  the  shadow. 

"Why,  Cort!  You  here?"  said  the  General, 
and  if  his  quick  tones  showed  slight  annoyance,  his 
well-bred  accents  meant  only  polite  inquiry. 

"Yes,  dad.     How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Wray?" 

Wray  went  over  and  took  him  by  the  hand. 

"Well!  well!"  said  Wray  heartily.  "This  is  sure 
like  old  times.  Glad  to  see  you,  Bent.  It  seems 
like  only  yesterday  that  you  and  Camilla  were  gal 
loping  over  the  plains  together.  A  year  and  a  half 
has  made  some  changes,  eh?  Camilla,  can't  we 
have  a  drink?  One  doesn't  meet  old  friends  every 
day." 

"I  rang  for  tea." 

"Tea?  Ugh!  tNot  tea,  Camilla.  I  can't  get 

50 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


used  to  these  foreign  notions.  General  —  Cort  — 
some  Scotch?  That's  better.  Tea  was  invented 
for  sick  people  and  old  maids,"  and  then,  as  the 
servant  entered,  "Tell  Greer  to  bring  the  tray, 
and  some  cigars.  You'll  let  us,  won't  you,  Camilla? 
General  Bent  and  I  have  been  talking  for  two 
hours,  and  if  there's  any  thirstier  business  than 
that 

"I  hope  we  aren't  intruding,"  said  the  General. 
"I  have  been  very  anxious  to  meet  you,  Mrs. 
Wray." 

"I'm  very  much  flattered.  I'm  afraid,  though, 
that  Jeff  has  taken  you  out  of  your  way."  She 
paused,  conscious  that  the  sharp  eyes  of  the  old 
man  were  peering  at  her  curiously  from  under  the 
shadows  of  his  bushy  eyebrows.  "I  feel  as  if  I  ought 
to  know  you  very  well,"  she  went  on.  "In  the  West 
your  son  often  spoke  of  you." 

"Did  he?  H  — m!"  And  then,  with  a  laugh, 
"Cortland,  my  boy,  what  did  you  say  to  her? 
You  expected  to  see  an  old  ogre,  didn't  you?" 

"Oh,  no,  but  you  are  different  from  the  idea  I 
had  of  you.  You  and  your  son  are  not  in  the 
least  alike,  are  you?" 

"No.  You  see  Cortland  took  the  comeliness  of 
the  Davidges,  and  I  —  well,  I  won't  tell  you  what 
they  call  me  in  the  Street,"  he  laughed  grimly. 
"You  know  Mr.  Wray  and  I  have  some  interests 
in  the  West  in  common  —  some  properties  that 
adjoin,  and  some  railroads  that  join.  It's  absurdly 
simple.  He  wants  what  I  have,  and  I  want  what 

51 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


he  has,  and  neither  of  us  is  willing  to  give  up  a 
square  inch.  Won't  you  tell  us  what  to  do?" 

"I  give  it  up,"  she  laughed.  "My  husband  has 
a  way  of  getting  what  he  wants." 

"The  great  secret  of  that,"  said  Wray  comfort 
ably,  "is  wanting  what  you  can  get.  Still,  I  don't 
doubt  that  when  the  General's  crowd  gets  through 
with  me  there  won't  be  enough  of  me  to  want 
anything.  You  needn't  wrorry  about  the  *Lone 
Tree,'  Cortland.  You'll  have  it  again,  after  a  while, 
when  my  hide  is  spread  out  to  dry." 

General  Bent's  eyes  vanished  under  his  heavy 
brows. 

"No,"  he  said  cryptically.  "It  looks  as  though 
the  fruit  of  the  'Lone  Tree'  was  forbidden." 


CHAPTER  V 

DINERS    OUT 

WHEN  the  visitors  had  gone,  Camilla  dis 
appeared  in  the  direction  of  her  own  apart 
ment.  The  thought  of  being  alone  with 
Jeff  was  intolerable  to  her.  She  must  have  time 
to  think,  to  wash  away  the  traces  of  her  emotion, 
which  she  was  sure  even  the  shadows  of  the  drawing 
room  could  hardly  have  hidden  from  the  sharp 
eyes  of  her  elderly  guest.  Her  husband  had  given 
no  indication  of  having  noticed  anything  unusual 
in  her  appearance,  but  she  knew  that  he  would  not 
have  let  her  discover  it  if  he  had.  She  breathed 
a  sigh  of  relief  when  the  door  was  closed  behind 
her,  dismissed  her  maid,  and,  slipping  into  a  com 
fortable  garment,  threw  herself  face  downward 
on  a  couch  and  buried  her  head  in  its  pillow. 

Out  of  the  disordered  tangle  of  her  thoughts  one 
idea  gradually  evolved  —  that  she  must  not  see 
Cortland  Bent  again.  She  could  not  plan  just 
now  how  she  was  to  avoid  him,  for  General  Bent 
had  already  invited  them  to  dine  at  his  house,  and 
she  knew  that  she  must  go,  for  Jeff's  sake,  no  mat 
ter  what  it  cost  her.  She  could  not  blame  Cortland 
as  much  as  she  blamed  herself,  for  she  realized 
now  how  vulnerable  she  had  been  even  from  the 

53 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


first  moment  when  she  had  entered  the  room, 
bravely  assuring  herself  that  she  cared  for  him  no 
longer.  The  revelation  of  her  husband's  part 
in  the  lease  of  the  "Lone  Tree"  had  shocked  her, 
but  even  her  abomination  of  his  brutal  method  of 
consummating  the  business  was  lost  in  the  dis 
covery  of  her  own  culpability.  Before  to-day 
it  had  not  seemed  so  great  a  sin  to  hold  another 
man's  image  in  her  heart,  but  the  disclosure  of 
her  secret  had  robbed  it  of  some  of  the  dignity 
of  seclusion.  The  one  thing  that  had  redeemed  her 
in  the  past  had  been  the  soft  pains  of  self-abnegation, 
and  now  she  had  not  even  those  to  comfort  her. 

The  revelation  to  Cort  had  even  made  their 
relation  a  little  brutal.  She  fought  with  herself 
silently,  proposing  subterfuge  and  sophistry,  then 
dragging  her  pitiful  treasure  forth  remorselessly 
under  the  garish  light  of  conscience.  She  could 
not  understand  the  change  that  Cortland's  presence 
made;  for  what  yesterday  had  been  only  unduteous, 
to-day  was  a  sin.  What  then  had  been  a  balm  was 
now  a  poison. 

Morning  brought  regeneration.  The  sun 'shone 
brightly  through  her  yellow  curtains,  and  her  maid 
brought  with  her  breakfast  tray  a  note  from  the 
contrite  Cortland. 

"Forgive  me,  Camilla.  Forgive  me.  Call  me 
selfish,  unreasonable,  cruel  —  anything  you  like 
—  but  don't  tell  me  I  shall  not  see  you  again. 
You  will  find  me  a  model  of  all  the  virtues.  Gladys 

54 


DINERS  OUT 


is  calling  on  you  to-day.  You  are  coming  to  the 
dinner,  aren't  you?  I  will  be  there  —  in  a  corner 
somewhere,  but  I  won't  bother  you.  The  night 
has  brought  me  patience.  Forgive  me. 

"C." 

Camilla  slipped  the  note  among  her  laces,  and 
when  Jeff  looked  in  to  bring  her  the  invitation 
which  had  arrived  in  the  morning  mail  to  dine 
at  the  house  of  Cornelius  Bent,  she  presented  a 
fair  face  and  joyous  countenance. 

General  Bent's  dinners  had  a  way  of  being  pon 
derous  —  like  himself.  From  soup  to  coffee  the 
victuals  were  rich  and  highly  seasoned,  the  wines 
full-bodied;  his  dishes  were  heavy,  his  silver- 
service  massive,  his  furniture  capacious.  The  im 
pression  of  solidity  was  further  enhanced  by  the 
thick  oak  paneling,  the  wide  fireplace,  and  the 
sumptuous  candelabra.  Many,  if  not  all,  of  these 
adjectives  might  readily  be  applied  to  his  men- 
servants,  who  had  been  so  long  in  his  employ  that 
the  essentials  of  their  surroundings  had  been  seared 
into  their  souls.  The  Bent  regime  was  their  re 
ligion,  the  General  its  high  priest,  and  their  offices 
components  of  a  ceremony  which  they  observed 
with  impressive  dignity  and  sedate  fervor. 

As  a  rule,  the  personality  of  the  General's  guests 
did  nothing  to  detract  from  the  impression  of 
opulence.  They  were  the  heavy  men  of  affairs, 
the  big  men  of  clubdom,  of  business,  of  religion, 
of  politics.  Camilla  had  been  warned  of  what 

55 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


she  must  expect,  but  it  was  with  feelings  of  trepi 
dation  not  far  removed  from  awe  that  she  and 
Jeff  got  down  from  their  taxi  under  the  glow  of  the 
porte-cochere  before  the  wide  portal  of  the  great 
house  in  Madison  Avenue.  Her  last  admonition 
to  her  husband  in  the  cab  had  been,  "Jeff,  don't 
shuffle  your  feet!  And  don't  say  'ma'am.'  And 
keep  your  hands  out  of  your  pockets!  If  you  can't 
think  of  anything  to  say,  don't  say  it." 

Wray  only  laughed.  He  was  very  much  at  his 
ease,  for  he  had  convinced  himself  downtown  that 
the  doors  of  the  Bent  establishment  would  not  have 
swung  so  wide  had  the  General  not  found  that 
Wray's  holdings  and  influence  in  the  West  were 
matters  which  some  day  he  would  have  to  reckon 
with. 

When  they  arrived  they  were  pleased  to  discover 
that  there  were  to  be  young  people  among  the 
guests  as  well  as  old.  Three  stout,  florid  gentlemen, 
members  of  the  directorate  of  the  Amalgamated 
Reduction  Company,  whom  Jeff  had  met  downtown, 
with  their  wives,  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Worthington 
Rumsen  lent  their  share  to  the  dignity  the  General 
required,  but  there  was  a  leaven  of  a  younger  set 
in  Gladys,  his  daughter  (Mrs.  Bent  had  died  many 
years  before),  Cortland,  his  son,  and  some  others. 
Most  of  the  guests  were  already  in  the  drawing 
room  when  the  Wrays  were  announced.  And 
Camilla  entered  a  little  uncertainly,  her  eyes  spark 
ling,  seeking  her  hostess.  There  was  a  subdued 
masculine  murmur  of  approval,  a  raising  of  lorgnons 

56 


DINERS  OUT 


to   aged   feminine   noses,    a   general   movement   of 
appreciation. 

Camilla  was  radiant.  Cortland  Bent  came  for 
ward  from  his  corner,  slowly  drinking  in  her  love 
liness  with  his  eyes.  She  was  gowned  in  white  and 
wore  no  ornaments.  The  slenderness  which  all 
women  ape  was  hers  without  asking.  Her  ruddy 
hair  at  the  last  moment  had  resisted  the  arts  of  the 
hair-dresser,  and  so  she  wore  it  as  she  had  always 
done,  in  a  heavy  coil  like  a  rope  of  flame.  If  she 
had  been  pale  as  she  entered,  the  blood  now  flowed 
quickly  —  almost  too  quickly  to  be  fashionable 
—  suffusing  her  face  and  gently  warming  her 
splendid  throat  and  shoulders. 

"Am  I  late?"  she  asked.  "I'm  so  sorry.  Will 
you  forgive  me?" 

"You're  not  late,"  said  her  hostess.  "Awfully 
glad- 

"  We're  bountifully  repaid,"  put  in  General  Bent 
gallantly,  as  he  came  forward.  "I'm  sure  you're 
quite  worth  waiting  for.  I've  been  telling  New 
York  for  years  it  had  better  keep  its  eyes  on 
the  West.  Now  I  must  warn  its  women.  How 
are  you,  Wray?  You  know  Warrington  —  and  Jan- 
ney.  Let  me  present  you,  Wray  —  the  Baroness 
Charny." 

Jeff  felt  himself  appraised  civilly. 

"You  are  the  Mr.  Wray?"  she  asked  him.  "The 
rich  Mr.  Wray?" 

Jeff  flushed  with  pleasure.     Nothing  ever  tickled 
him  more  than  a  reference  to  his  possessions. 
5  57 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


"I'm  Wray  —  from  Colorado.  And  you  —  you 
know  I've  never  seen  a  real  live  baroness  before. 
So  don't  mind  if  I  look  at  you  a  little.  You  see,  we 
never  have  anybody  like  you  out  our  way " 

"I  don't  mind  in  the  least,"  she  said  with  a  slight 
accent.  "What  did  you  think  a  baroness  ought  to 
look  like?" 

"I  had  a  kind  of  an  idea  she  was  stoutish,  wore  a 
crown,  and  sat  in  a  big  chair  all  day,  ordering  people 
around." 

"I'm  afraid  you  read  fairy  stories.  I  don't  own 
a  crown,  and  I  might  order  people  all  day,  but 
nobody  would  pay  the  least  attention  to  me." 

"What  a  pity,"  he  said  soberly. 

His  ingenuousness  was  refreshing. 

"You  know,  Mr.  Wray,  baronesses  aren't  any 
more  important  nowadays  than  anybody  else. 
The  only  barons  worth  while  in  the  world  are  the 
Coal  Barons,  the  Wheat  Barons,  the  Gold  Barons, 
like  you."  And  then,  "Did  you  know  that  you  were 
to  take  me  in?  Are  you  glad?" 

"Of  course,"  with  a  vague  attempt  at  gallantry. 
"I'd  take  you  anywhere  and  be  proud  to." 

"Then  give  me  your  arm,"  she  laughed.  And 
they  followed  the  others  in  to  dinner.  Wray's 
other  neighbor  was  Mrs.  Rumsen,  his  host's  sister. 
Camilla  had  related  many  tales  of  her  social  prowess, 
and  she  was  really  the  only  person  at  the  table  of 
whom  Jeff  stood  the  least  in  awe.  Mrs.  Rumsen's 
nose  was  aquiline  like  her  brother's,  her  eyebrows 
high  and  slightly  arched,  her  eyes  small  and  rather 

58 


DINERS  OUT 


close  together,  as  though  nature  had  intended  them 
for  a  short  but  concentrated  vision.  She  held  her 
head  very  erect,  and  from  her  great  height  was 
enabled  without  pretence  to  look  down  on  all 
lesser  things.  Cortland  had  described  her  as  a 
grenadier,  and,  as  Wray  realized  that  the  moment 
when  he  must  talk  to  her  was  inevitably  ap 
proaching,  he  lost  some  faith  in  his  moods  and 
tenses. 

"Mr.  Wray,"  she  began,  in  a  tone  which  was 
clearly  to  be  heard  the  length  of  the  table,  "you 
have  a  handsome  wife." 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  he  drawled.  "I'm  glad  you  think 
so,  Mrs.  Rumsen." 

"A  woman  with  her  looks  and  your  money  could 
have  the  world  at  her  feet  if  she  wished." 

"Yes.  I've  told  her  the  same  thing.  But  I 
don't  think  she  likes  a  fuss.  Why,  I  sent  up  a 
whole  carload  of  hats  —  all  colors,  with  plumes 
and  things,  but  she  wouldn't  have  one  of  them." 

The  old  lady's  deep  wrinkles  relaxed. 

"And  diamonds "  he  went  on.  "She's  got 

half  a  peck,  but  I  can't  get  her  to  put  them  on." 

Mrs.  Rumsen  did  not  reply,  only  examined 
him  with  her  small  eyes  through  her  lorgnon. 

"You  know,  Mr.  Wray,  ever  since  you  came  into 
the  room  you  have  been  a  puzzle  to  me.  Your 
features  resemble  those  of  some  one  I  have  known 
—  years  ago  —  some  one  I  have  known  intimately  — 
curious  I  can't " 


Have  you  ever  been  West?" 
59 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


"Oh,  yes.     Were  your  people ?" 

"I  have  no  people,  Mrs.  Rumsen,"  he  said  with  a 
quick  air  of  finality. 

"Oh!"  She  still  looked  at  him  wonderingly. 
"I  beg  your  pardon."  Then  she  went  on  calmly, 
"You  really  interest  me  a  great  deal.  I  have  seen 
Westerners  in  New  York  before  —  but  you're 
different  —  I  mean,"  she  added,  "the  cut  of  your 
nose,  the  lines  of  your  chin,  the  set  of  your  head  on 
your  shoulders.  I  hope  you'll  forgive  an  old 
woman's  curiosity." 

Jeff  bowed  politely.  "I'm  very  much  flattered, 
Mrs.  Rumsen." 

"You  and  my  brother  have  business  interests 
in  common?" 

"  Yes,  I've  a  mine  —  a  chain  of  mines  and  property 
interests,  including  a  control  of  the  Denver  and 
Western  Railroad." 

She  laid  a  hand  impressively  on  his  arm. 

"Hold  them.  Take  my  advice  and  hold  them. 
I  know  it  is  a  great  temptation  to  extend  your 
control,  to  be  a  big  man  East  and  West.  But 
don't  try  it  by  weakening  what  you  have.  Other 
men  have  come  here  to  set  the  Hudson  afire " 

"Some  of  them  have  done  it,  too,  Mrs.  Rum- 
sen." 

She  shrugged.  "What  is  the  use?  You  have  an 
empire  of  your  own.  Stay  at  home,  develop  it. 
Wouldn't  you  rather  be  first  in  Mantua  than  second 
in  Rome?" 

"I  —  I'm  afraid  I  don't  just  take  you?" 

60 


DINERS  OUT 


"I  mean,  wouldn't  you  rather  be  an  emperor 
among  your  own  people  than  fetch  and  carry  — 
as  so  many  others  are  doing  —  for  Wall  Street?" 

"That's  just  the  point.  Only  the  boot  is  on  the 
other  leg.  Wall  Street  needs  the  West.  Wall 
Street  doesn't  think  so.  It's  away  behind  the 
times.  Those  people  downtown  are  so  stuck  on 
themselves  that  they  think  the  whole  country  is 
stooping  with  its  ear  to  the  ground  listening  to 
what  they're  doing.  Why,  Mrs.  Rumsen,  there 
are  men  in  the  West  —  big  men,  too  —  who  think 
Wall  Street  is  a  joke.  Funny,  isn't  it?  Wall 
Street  doesn't  seem  to  know  that  millions  of  acres 
of  corn,  of  wheat,  and  potatoes  keep  growing  just 
the  same.  Those  things  don't  wait  to  hear  what 
Wall  Street  thinks.  Only  God  Almighty  can  make 
'em  stop  growing.  And  as  long  as  they  grow,  we 
don't  bother  much." 

She  smiled  approvingly. 

"Then  why  do  you  care?" 

"Oh,  I'm  a  kind  of  missionary.  These  people 
downtown  are  heathen  critters.  They're  so  igno 
rant  about  their  own  country  it  almost  makes  me 
ashamed  to  talk  to  them." 

The  last  vestige  of  the  grenadier  aspect  in  Mrs. 
Rumsen  had  vanished,  and  her  face  dissolved  in 
smiles. 

"Heathens!  They  are,"  she  laughed  delightedly. 
"Critters  —  yes,  critters,  too.  Splendid!  Have  you 
told  Cornelius  —  my  brother  —  that?" 

Wray's  truffle  stuck  in  his  throat  and  he  gasped, 

61 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


"Good  God,  ma'am!  No.  You  won't  tell  him, 
will  you?" 

"I'd  like  to,"  she  chuckled.     "But  I  won't." 

Jeff  laughed.  "I'm  afraid  I've  put  my  foot  in 
it.  I'm  apt  to.  I'm  rather  a  raw  product ' 

"Whatever  you  do,  Mr.  Wray,  don't  change. 
You're  positively  refreshing.  Anybody  can  learn 
to  be  good  form.  It's  as  simple  as  a,  b,  c.  If  it 
wasn't  easy  there  wouldn't  be  so  many  people 
practising  it.  The  people  in  the  shops  even  adopt 
our  adjectives  before  they're  well  out  of  our  mouths. 
Hats  are  'smart,'  when  in  earlier  days  they  were 
simply  'becoming.'  Gowns  are  'fetching'  or 
'stunning'  that  were  once  merely  'pretty.'  Let 
a  fashionable  Englishman  wear  a  short  coat  with  a 
high  hat  to  the  Horse  Show,  and  every  popinjay 
in  town  will  be  doing  the  same  thing  in  a  week. 
If  you're  a  raw  product,  remain  so  by  all  means. 
Raw  products  are  so  much  more  appetizing  than 
half-baked  ones." 

"I  don't  think  there's  any  way  to  make  me  any 
different,  Mrs.  Rumsen,"  he  laughed,  "even  if 
I  wanted  to  be.  People  will  have  to  take  me  as  I 
am.  Your  brother  has  been  kind.  It  seems  as 
if  he  had  a  broader  view  of  our  people  than  most  of 
the  others." 

"Don't  be  too  sure.  They're  all  tarred  with  the 
same  stick.  It's  a  maxim  of  mine  never  to  put 
my  trust  in  any  person  or  thing  below  Twenty- 
third  Street.  The  farther  downtown  you  go,  the 
deeper  the  villainy.  You'll  find  all  New  Yorkers 

62 


DINERS  OUT 


much  the  same.  Out  of  business  hours  they  are 
persons  of  the  most  exemplary  habits,  good  fathers, 
vestrymen  in  churches,  excellent  hosts.  In  busi 
ness  "  she  held  up  her  hands  in  mock  horror. 

"Oh,  I  know,"  Wray  chuckled.  "But  I'm  not 
afraid.  I'm  something  of  a  wolf  myself.  Your 
brother  needs  me  more  than  I  need  him.  I  think 
we'll  get  along." 

"You  have  everything  you  want.  Take  my 
advice  and  keep  your  money  in  the  West." 

"Thanks.  But  I  like  New  York,  and  I  don't 
want  to  be  idle.  Besides,  there's  Camilla  —  Mrs. 
Wray,  you  know." 

"Yes,  I  see.  I  can't  blame  her.  No  woman 
with  her  looks  wants  to  waste  them  on  mountain 
scenery.  I  must  know  her  better  —  and  you. 
She  must  let  me  call  on  her.  I'm  giving  a  ball 
later.  Do  you  think  you  could  come?" 

And  the  great  lady  turned  to  her  dinner  partner. 

The  Baroness,  too,  was  amiable.  It  was  her 
first  visit  to  America.  Her  husband  was  an  attache 
of  an  embassy  in  Washington.  She  had  not  yet 
been  in  the  West.  Were  all  the  men  big,  as  Mr. 
Wray  was? 

She  had  a  charming  faculty  of  injecting  the 
personal  note  into  her  questions,  and  before  he 
was  aware  of  it  Wray  found  himself  well  launched 
in  a  description  of  his  country  —  the  mountains, 
the  plains,  the  cowboys. 

She  had  never  heard  of  cowboys.  What  were 
they?  Little  cows? 

63 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


Jeff  caught  a  warning  look  from  Camilla  across 
the  table,  which  softened  his  laughter.  He  ex 
plained,  and  the  Baroness  joined  in  the  merriment. 
Then  he  told  her  that  he  had  been  for  years  a  cow- 
puncher  down  in  Arizona  and  New  Mexico  before 
he  went  into  business,  described  the  "round-up," 
the  grub  wagon,  and  told  her  of  a  brush  with  some 
Yaqui  Indians  who  were  on  the  warpath.  When 
he  began,  the  other  people  stopped  talking  and 
listened.  Jeff  was  in  his  element  and  without 
embarrassment  finished  his  story  amid  plaudits. 
Camilla,  listening  timidly,  was  forced  to  admit  that 
his  domination  of  the  table  was  complete.  The 
conversation  became  general,  a  thing  which  rarely 
happened  at  the  Bent  dinners,  and  Jeff  discovered 
himself  the  centre  of  attention.  Almost  uncon 
sciously  he  found  himself  addressing  most  of  his 
remarks  to  a  lady  opposite,  who  had  listened  and 
questioned  with  an  unusual  show  of  interest. 

When  the  ices  were  passed  he  turned  to  Mrs. 
Rumsen  and  questioned. 

"Haven't  you  met  her?"  And  then,  across  the 
table,  "Rita  —  you  haven't  met  Mr.  Wray  — 
Mrs.  Cheyne." 


CHAPTER  VI 

MRS.    CHEYNE 

OVER  the  coffee,  curiously  enough,  there 
seemed  to  be  a  disposition  to  refrain  from 
market  quotations,  for  General  Bent  skil 
fully  directed  the  conversation  into  other  channels  — 
motoring  —  aviation  —  the  Horse  Show  —  the  new 
est  pictures  in  the  Metropolitan  —  and  Jeff  listened 
avidly,  newly  alive  to  the  interests  of  these  people, 
who,  as  Mrs.  Rumsen  had  said,  above  Twenty- 
third  Street  took  on  a  personality  which  was  not 
to  be  confounded  with  the  Me  downtown,  where 
he  had  first  met  them.  When  Curtis  Janney  asked 
him  if  he  rode,  Jeff  only  laughed. 

"Oh,  yes,  of  course  you  do.  One  doesn't  punch 
cattle  for  nothing.  But  jumping  is  different  — 
and  then  there's  the  saddle " 

"Oh,  I  think  I  can  stay  on  without  going  for  the 
leather.  Anyway,  I'd  like  to  try." 

"Right-o  !"  said  Janney  heartily.  "We've  had 
one  run  already  —  a  drag.  Couldn't  you  and  Mrs. 
Wray  come  out  soon?  We're  having  a  few  people 
for  the  hunt  week  after  next.  There  will  be  Cort- 
land  Bent,  Jack  Perot,  the  Rumsens,  the  Billy 
Havilands,  Mrs.  Cheyne,  the  Baroness  and  —  if 
you'll  come  along  —  yourselves." 

65 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


"Delighted.  I'm  sure  Camilla  will  be  glad  to 
accept.  We  haven't  many  engagements." 

"I  think  you've  hidden  your  wife  long  enough, 
Mr.  Wray.  Does  she  ride,  too?" 

"Like  a  breeze  —  astride.  But  she  wouldn't 
know  what  to  do  on  a  side-saddle." 

"I  don't  blame  her.  Some  of  our  women  ride 
across.  Gladys,  Gretchen,  Mrs.  Cheyne " 

"Well,"  Jeff  silently  raised  his  brandy  glass  in 
imitation  of  his  companion,  "I'm  glad  there  are 
a  few  horses  somewhere  around  here  —  I  haven't 
seen  any  outside  of  the  shafts  of  a  hansom  since  I 
left  the  West." 

"The  horse  would  soon  be  extinct  if  it  wasn't 
for  Curtis  Janney,"  put  in  the  General  breezily. 
"Why,  he  won't  even  own  a  motor.  No  snorting 
devils  for  him.  Might  give  his  horses  the  pip  or 
something.  The  stable  is  worth  seeing,  though. 
You're  going,  aren't  you,  Wray?" 

In  the  library,  later,  Wray  found  Mrs.  Cheyne. 
Until  he  had  come  to  New  York  Wray's  idea  of  a 
woman  had  never  strayed  from  Camilla.  There 
were  other  females  in  the  Valley,  and  he  had  known 
some  of  them,  but  Camilla  had  made  any  com 
parison  unfortunate.  She  was  a  being  living  in  a 
sphere  apart,  with  which  mere  clay  had  nothing 
in  common.  He  had  always  thought  of  her  as  he 
thought  of  the  rare  plants  in  Jim  Noakes'  con 
servatory  in  Denver,  flowers  to  be  carefully  nurtured 
and  admired.  Even  marriage  had  made  little 
difference  in  his  point  of  view.  It  is  curious  that  he 

66 


MRS.  CHEYNE 


thought  of  these  things  when  he  leaned  over  Mrs. 
Cheyne.  To  his  casual  eye  this  new  acquaintance 
possessed  many  of  the  characteristics  of  his  wife. 
Perhaps  even  more  than  Camilla  she  represented  a 
mental  life  of  which  he  knew  nothing,  contributed 
more  than  her  share  to  the  sublimated  atmosphere 
in  which  he  found  himself  moving.  They  might 
have  been  grown  in  the  same  conservatory,  but, 
if  Camilla  was  the  Orchid,  Mrs.  Cheyne  was  the 
Poinsettia  flower.  And  yet  she  was  not  beautiful 
as  Camilla  was.  Her  features,  taken  one  at  a  time, 
were  singularly  imperfect.  He  was  almost  ready 
to  admit  that  she  wasn't  even  strikingly  pretty. 
But  as  he  looked  at  her  he  realized  for  the  first  time 
in  his  life  the  curious  fact  that  a  woman  need  not 
be  beautiful  to  be  attractive.  He  saw  that  she 
was  colorful  and  unusually  shapely,  and  that  she 
gave  forth  a  flow  of  magnetism  which  her  air  of 
ennui  made  every  effort  to  deny.  Her  eyes,  like 
her  hair,  were  brown,  but  the  pupils,  when  she  lifted 
her  lids  high  enough  to  show  them,  were  so  large 
that  they  seemed  much  darker.  Her  dinner  dress, 
cut  straight  across  her  shoulders,  was  of  black, 
like  the  jewelled  bandeau  in  her  hair  and  the  pearls 
which  depended  from  her  ears.  These  ornaments, 
together  with  the  peculiar  dressing  of  her  hair, 
gave  her  well-formed  head  an  effect  which,  if  done 
in  brighter  hues,  might  have  been  barbaric,  but 
which,  in  the  subdued  tones  of  her  color  scheme, 
only  added  to  the  impression  of  sombre  distinction. 
As  he  approached,  she  looked  up  at  him  sleepily. 

67 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


"I  thought  you  were  never  coming,"  she  said. 

"Did  you?"  said  Wray,  bewildered.  "I  —  I  came 
as  soon  as  I  could,  Mrs.  Cheyne.  We  had  our 
cigars " 

"Oh,  I  know.  Men  have  always  been  selfish  — 
they  always  will  be  selfish.  Cousin  Cornelius  is 
provincial  to  herd  the  men  and  women  —  like  sheep 
—  the  ones  in  one  pen,  the  others  in  another. 
There  isn't  a  salon  in  Europe  —  a  real  salon  —  where 
the  women  may  not  smoke  if  they  like." 

"You  want  to  smoke " 

"I'm  famished  —  but  the  General  doesn't  ap 
prove  " 

Wray  had  taken  out  his  cigarette  case.  "  Couldn't 
we  find  a  spot?" 

She  rose  and  led  the  way  through  a  short  corridor 
to  the  conservatory,  where  they  found  a  stone 
bench  under  a  palm. 

He  offered  her  his  case,  and  she  lit  the  cigarette 
daintily,  holding  it  by  the  very  tips  of  her  fingers, 
and  steadying  her  hand  against  his  own  as  Wray 
would  have  done  with  a  man's.  Wray  did  not 
speak.  He  watched  her  amusedly,  aware  of  the 
extraordinary  interest  with  which  she  invested  his 
pet  vice. 

"Thanks,"  she  said  gratefully.  Turning  toward 
him  then,  she  lowered  her  chin,  opened  her  eyes, 
and  looked  straight  into  his. 

"You  know,  you  didn't  come  to  me  nearly  as 
soon  as  I  thought  you  would." 

"I  — I  didn't  know " 

68 


MRS.  CHEYNE 


"You  should  have  known." 

"Why  should  I ?" 

"Because  I  wanted  you  to." 

"I'm  glad  you  wanted  me.  I  think  I'd  have 
come  anyway." 

She  smiled  approvingly. 

"Then  my  efforts  were  unnecessary." 

"Your  efforts?" 

"Yes,  I  willed  it.     You  interested  me,  you  see." 

He  looked  at  her  quickly.  Her  eyes  only  closed 
sleepily,  then  opened  again. 

"I'm  lucky,"  he  said,  "that's  sure." 

"How  do  you  know?  I  may  not  be  at  all  the 
kind  of  person  you  think  I  am." 

"I'll  take  a  chance  on  that  —  but  I  wish  you'd 
tell  me  what  made  you  want  me." 

"I  was  bored.  I  usually  am.  The  Bent  parties 
are  so  formal  and  tiresome.  Everybody  always 
says  the  same  things  —  does  the  same  things." 
She  sighed  deeply.  "If  Cousin  Cornelius  saw  me 
now  I'd  be  in  disgrace.  I  wonder  why  I  always 
like  to  do  the  things  people  don't  expect  me 
to." 

"You  wouldn't  be  much  of  a  woman  if  you  didn't," 
he  laughed.  "But  I  like  surprises.  There  wouldn't 
be  much  in  life  if  you  knew  what  was  going  to 
happen  every  minute." 

"You  didn't  think  I  was  going  to  happen  then?" 

"Er  —  no.     Maybe  I  hoped  so." 

"Well,"  she  smiled,  "I  have  happened.  What 
are  you  going  to  do  about  it?" 

69 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


"Be  thankful  —  mostly.  You  seem  sort  of  hu 
man,  somehow.  You  do  what  you  want  to  —  say 
what  you  want " 

"And  if  I  don't  get  what  I  want,  ask  for  it,"  she 
laughed.  "I  told  Gladys  it  was  very  inconsiderate 
of  her  not  to  send  you  in  to  dinner  with  me.  She's 
always  doing  that  sort  of  thing.  Gladys  lacks  a 
sense  of  proportion.  As  it  is,  the  evening  is  almost 
gone,  and  we've  only  begun." 

"I  feel  as  if  I'd  known  you  for  years,"  said  Jeff 
heartily.  "That's  funny,  too,"  he  added,  "because 
you're  so  different  from  any  other  woman  I've  ever 
known.  You  look  as  if  you  might  have  come  from 
a  book  —  but  you  speak  out  like  Mesa  City." 

"Tell  me  about  Mesa  City.  You  know  I  was  out 
West  last  year." 

"Were  you?     Sure?"  eagerly.     "In  Colorado?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  said  slowly,  "but  I  was  living  in 
Nevada." 

"Nevada?  That  was  my  old  stamping  ground. 
I  punched  for  the  Bar  Circle  down  there.  What 
part?" 

"Reno." 

"Oh!" 

"I  went  there  for  my  divorce." 

His  voice  fell  a  note.  "I  didn't  know  that. 
I'm  awfully  sorry  you  were  so  unfortunate.  Won't 
you  tell  me  about  it?" 

"There's  nothing  to  tell.  Cheyne  and  I  were 
incompatible  —  at  least  that's  what  the  lawyers 
said.  As  such  things  go,  I  thought  we  got  along 

70 


MRS.  CHEYNE 


beautifully.  We  weren't  in  the  least  incompatible 
so  long  as  Cheyne  went  his  way  and  let  me  go  mine. 
It's  so  easy  for  married  people  to  manage,  if  they 
only  knew  how.  But  Cheyne  didn't.  He  didn't 
want  to  be  with  me  himself  —  and  he  didn't  want 
any  one  else  to  be.  So  things  came  to  a  pretty  pass. 
It  actually  got  so  bad  that  when  people  wanted 
either  of  us  to  dinner  they  had  to  write  first  to 
inquire  which  of  us  was  to  stay  away.  It  made  a 
lot  of  trouble,  and  the  Cheyne  family  got  to  be  a 
bore  —  so  we  decided  to  break  it  up." 

"Was  he  unkind  to  you  —  cruel?" 

"Oh,  dear,  no!  I  wish  he  had  been.  Our  life 
was  one  dreadful  round  of  cheerful  monotony.  I 
got  so  tired  of  the  shape  of  his  ears  that  I  could 
have  screamed.  Yes,  I  really  think,"  she  mused, 
"that  it  was  his  ears." 

Wray  examined  her  with  his  baby-like  stare  as 
though  she  had  been  a  specimen  of  ore.  There 
seemed  to  be  no  doubt  of  the  fact  that  she  was 
quite  serious. 

"I'm  really  sorry  for  him.     It  is  —  very  sad " 

She  threw  her  head  back  and  laughed  softly. 

"My  dear  Mr.  Wray,  your  sympathy  is  touch 
ing  —  he  would  appreciate  it  as  much  as  I  do  — 
if  he  had  not  already  married  again." 

"Married?     Here  in  New  York?" 

"Oh,  yes.  They're  living  within  a  stone's  throw 
of  my  house." 

"Do  you  see  him?" 

"Of  course.  I  dined  with  them  only  last  week. 

71 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


You  see,"  and  she  leaned  toward  him  with  an  air 
of  new  confidences,  "that's  only  human.  I  can't 
really  give  up  anything  I've  once  possessed.  You 
know,  I  try  not  to  sell  horses  that  I've  liked.  I  did 
sell  one  once,  and  he  turned  up  one  morning  in  a 
hired  brougham.  That  taught  me  a  lesson  I've 
never  forgotten.  Now  when  they  outlive  their 
usefulness  I  turn  them  out  on  my  farm  in  West- 
chester.  Of  course,  I  couldn't  do  that  to  Harold, 
but  I  did  the  next  best  thing.  I've  satisfied  myself 
that  he's  properly  looked  after  —  and  I'm  sure  he'll 
reflect  credit  on  his  early  training." 

"And  he's  happy?" 

"Blissfully  so.  It  wouldn't  be  possible  for  a  man 
to  have  the  advantages  of  a  training  like  the  one 
I  have  given  him  and  not  be  able  to  make  a  woman 
happy." 

"But  he  didn't  make  you  happy." 

"  Me?  Oh,  I  wasn't  made  for  bondage  of  any  kind. 
Most  women  marry  because  they're  bored  or  because 
they're  curious.  In  either  case  they  pay  a  penalty. 
Marriage  provides  no  panacea.  One  only  becomes 
more  bored  —  with  one's  own  husband  —  or  more 
curious  about  other  people's  husbands." 

"Are  you  curious?  You  don't  look  as  if  you  cared 
enough  to  be  curious." 

"I  do  care."  She  held  her  cigarette  at  arm's 
length  and  flicked  off  its  ash  with  her  little  finger. 
"Mr.  Wray,  I'll  let  you  into  a  secret.  A  woman 
never  appears  so  bored  as  when  she  is  intensely 
interested  in  something  —  never  so  much  inter- 

72 


MRS.  CHEYNE 


ested  as  when  she  is  bored  to  extinction.  I  am 
curious.  I  am  trying  to  learn  (without  asking  you 
impertinent  questions)  how  on  earth  you  and  Mrs. 
Wray  ever  happened  to  marry." 

She  tilted  her  chin  impudently  and  looked  down 
her  nose  at  him,  her  eyes  masked  by  her  dark  lashes, 
through  which  it  hardly  seemed  possible  that  she 
could  see  him  at  all.  Jeff  laughed.  She  had  her 
nerve  with  her,  he  thought,  but  her  frankness  was 
amusing.  He  liked  the  way  she  went  after  what 
she  wanted. 

"Oh,  Camilla  —  I  don't  know.  It  just  hap 
pened,  I  guess.  She's  more  your  kind  than  mine. 
I'm  a  good  deal  of  a  scrub,  Mrs.  Cheyne.  You 
see,  I  never  went  to  college  —  or  even  to  high 
school.  Camilla  knows  a  lot.  She  used  to  teach, 
but  I  reckon  she's  about  given  up  the  idea  of  trying 
to  teach  me.  I'm  a  low-brow  all  right.  I  never 
read  a  novel  in  my  life." 

"You  haven't  missed  much.  Books  were  only 
meant  for  people  who  are  willing  to  take  life  at  sec 
ond-hand.  One  year  of  the  life  you  lived  on  the 
range  is  worth  a  whole  shelf -ful.  The  only  way 
to  see  life  is  through  one's  own  eyes." 

"Oh,  I've  seen  life.  I've  been  a  cowboy,  rancher, 
speculator,  miner,  and  other  things.  And  I've  seen 
some  rough  times.  But  I  wouldn't  have  worked 
at  those  things  if  I  hadn't  needed  the  money.  Now 
I've  got  it,  maybe  I'll  learn  something  of  the  ro 
mantic  side  of  life." 

She  leaned  back  and  laughed  at  him.  "You 
6  73 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


dear,  delicious  man.  Then  it  has  never  occurred 
to  you  that  during  all  these  years  you've  been  living 
a  romance?" 

He  looked  at  her  askance. 

"And  then,  to  cap  it  all,"  she  finished,  "you 
discover  a  gold  mine,  and  marry  the  prettiest  woman 
in  the  West.  I  suppose  you'll  call  that  prosaic, 
too.  You're  really  quite  remarkable.  What  is 
it  that  you  expect  of  life  after  all?" 

"I  don't  know,"  he  said  slowly,  "something 
more " 

"But  there's  nothing  left." 

"Oh,  yes,  there  is.  I've  only  tasted  success,  but 
it's  good,  and  I  like  it.  What  I've  got  makes  me 
want  more.  There's  only  one  thing  in  the  world 
that  really  means  anything  to  me  —  and  that's 
power " 

"But  your  money " 

"Yes,  money.  But  money  itself  doesn't  mean 
anything  to  me  —  idle  money  —  the  kind  of  money 
you  people  in  New  York  are  content  to  live  on, 
the  interest  on  land  or  bonds.  It's  what  live,  active 
money  can  do  that  counts  with  me.  My  money 
has  got  to  keep  working  the  way  I  work  —  only 
harder.  Some  people  worship  money  for  what  it 
can  buy  their  bodies.  I  don't.  I  can't  eat  more 
than  three  square  meals  a  day.  I  want  my  money  to 
make  the  desert  bloom  —  to  make  the  earth  pay  up 
what  it  owes,  and  build  railroads  that  will  carry 
its  products  where  they're  needed.  I  want  it  to 
take  the  miserable  people  away  from  the  alleys  in 

74 


MRS.  CHEYNE 


your  city  slums  and  put  them  to  work  in  God's 
country,  where  their  efforts  will  count  for  some 
thing  in  building  up  the  waste  ground  that's  wait 
ing  for  them  out  there.  Why,  Mrs.  Cheyne,  last 
year  I  took  up  a  piece  of  desert.  There  wasn't  a 
thing  on  it  but  rabbit-brush.  Last  spring  I  worked 
out  a  colonization  plan  and  put  it  through.  There's 
a  town  there  now  called  Wrayville,  with  five  thou 
sand  inhabitants,  two  hotels,  three  miles  of  paved 
sidewalk,  a  public  school,  four  factories,  and  two 
newspapers.  All  that  in  six  months.  It's  a  hummer, 
I  can  tell  you." 

As  he  paused  for  breath  she  sighed.  "And  yet 
you  speak  of  romance." 

"Romance?  There's  no  romance  in  that.  That's 
just  get-up-and-get.  I  had  to  hustle,  Mrs.  Cheyne. 
I'd  promised  those  people  the  water  from  the 
mountains  on  a  certain  date,  but  I  couldn't  do  it, 
and  the  big  ditch  wasn't  finished.  I  was  in  a  bad 
fix,  for  I'd  broken  my  word.  Those  people  had 
paid  me  their  money,  and  they  threatened  to  lynch 
me.  They  had  a  mass  meeting  and  were  calling 
me  some  ugly  names  when  I  walked  in.  Why 
they  didn't  take  a  shot  at  me  then,  I  don't  know 
—  but  they  didn't.  I  got  up  on  the  table,  and, 
when  they  stopped  yelling,  I  began  to  talk  to  'em. 
I  didn't  know  just  what  to  say,  but  I  knew  I  had 
to  say  something  and  make  good  —  or  go  out  of 
town  in  a  pine  box.  I  began  by  telling  'em  what 
a  great  town  Wrayville  was  going  to  be.  They 
only  yelled,  *  Where's  our  water?'  I  told  them  it 

75 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


was  coming.     They  tried  to  hoot  me  down,  but  I 
kept  on." 

"Weren't  you  afraid?" 

"You  bet  I  was.  But  they  never  knew  it.  I 
tried  to  think  of  a  reason  why  they  didn't  have  that 
water,  and  in  a  moment  they  began  to  listen.  I 
told  'em  there  was  thirty  thousand  dollars'  worth  of 
digging  to  be  done.  I  told  'em  it  would  be  done, 
too,  but  that  I  didn't  see  why  that  money  should  go 
out  of  Wrayville  to  a  lot  of  contractors  in  Denver. 
I'd  been  saving  that  work  for  the  citizens  of  Wray 
ville.  I  was  prepared  to  pay  the  highest  wages  for 
good  men,  and,  if  Wrayville  said  the  word,  they 
could  begin  the  big  ditch  to-morrow." 

"What  did  they  do?" 

"They  stopped  yelling  right  there,  and  I  knew  I 
had  'em  going.  In  a  minute  they  started  to  cheer. 
Before  I  finished  they  were  carrying  me  around  the 
hall  on  their  shoulders.  Phew  —  but  that  took  some 
quick  thinking." 

Mrs.  Cheyne  had  started  forward  when  he  began,, 
and,  as  he  went  on,  her  eyes  lost  their  sleepy  look, 
her  manner  its  languor,  and  she  followed  him  to  the 
end  in  wonder.  When  he  stopped,  she  sank  back 
in  her  corner,  smiling,  and  repeated:  "Romance? 
What  romance  is  there  left  in  the  world  for  a  man 
like  you?" 

He  looked  up  at  her  with  his  baby  "stare  and  then 
laughed  awkwardly.  "You're  making  fun  of  me, 
Mrs.  Cheyne.  I've  been  talking  too  much,  I 
reckon." 

76 


MRS:  CHEYNE 


She  didn't  reply  at  once,  and  the  look  in  her  eyes 
embarrassed  him.  He  reached  for  his  cigarette 
case,  offered  it  to  her,  and,  when  she  refused,  took 
one  himself,  lit  it  slowly,  gazing  out  of  the  transom 
opposite. 

"I  hope  I  haven't  tired  you,  Mrs.  Cheyne.  It's 
dangerous  to  get  me  talking  about  myself.  I  never 
know  when  to  stop." 

"I  don't  want  you  to  stop.  I've  never  been  so 
entertained  in  my  life.  I  don't  believe  you  know 
how  interesting  you  are." 

He  turned  toward  her,  embarrassed  and  still 
incredulous.  "You're  very  kind,"  he  muttered. 

"You  mustn't  be  so  humble,"  she  broke  in 
sharply.  "You  weren't  so  a  minute  ago.  I  like 
you  best  when  you  are  talking  of  yourself." 

"I  thought  I'd  like  to  talk  about  you." 

She  waved  a  hand  in  deprecation.  "Me?  Oh, 
no.  We  can't  come  to  earth  like  that.  Tell  me 
another  fairy  tale." 

"Fairy  tale?     Then  you  don't  believe  "me?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  laughed,  "I  believe  you,  but  to  me 
they're  fairy  tales  just  the  same.  It  seems  so  easy 
for  you  to  do  wonderful  things.  I  wish  you'd  do 
some  conjuring  for  me." 

"Oh,  there  isn't  any  magic  business  about  me. 
But  I'll  try.  What  do  you  want  most?" 

She  put  an  elbow  on  her  knee  and  gazed  at  the 
blossom  in  her  fingers.  Her  voice,  too,  fell  a 
note. 

"What  I  think  I  want  most,"  she  said  slowly, 

77 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


"is  a  way  out  of  this."  She  waved  the  blossom 
vaguely  in  the  direction  of  the  drawing  room.  "I'm 
sick  of  it  all,  of  the  same  tiresome  people,  the  same 
tiresome  dinners,  dances,  teas.  We're  so  narrow, 
so  cynical,  so  deeply  enmeshed  in  our  small  pur 
suits.  I'm  weary  —  desperately  weary  of  myself." 

"You?" 

1  ( Yes . ' '  And  then,  with  a  short,  unmirthf ul  laugh, 
"That's  my  secret.  You  didn't  suspect  it,  did  you?" 

"Lord!  no."  And  after  a  pause,  "You're  un 
happy  about  him?" 

"Cheyne?  Oh,  no.  He's  the  only  thing  I  am 
happy  about.  Have  you  ever  been  really  bored, 
Mr.  Wray?" 

"Never.  I  never  even  heard  the  word  until  I 
came  to  New  York." 

"Have  you  ever  been  so  tired  that  your  body 
was  numb  —  so  that  if  you  struck  it  a  blow  you 
were  hardly  conscious  of  it,  when  you  felt  as  if  you 
could  go  to  sleep  and  never  want  to  wake  up?  Well, 
that's  the  condition  of  my  mind.  It's  so  tired  of  the 
same  impressions  that  it  fails  to  make  note  of 
them;  the  people  I  see,  the  things  I  do,  are  all 
blurred  and  colorless  like  a  photograph  that  has 
been  taken  out  of  focus.  The  only  regret  I  have 
when  I  go  to  sleep  is  that  I  have  to  wake  up  again." 

"My  dear  Mrs.  Cheyne " 

"Oh,  I'm  not  morbid.  I'm  too  bored  to  be 
morbid  even.  I  don't  think  I'm  even  unhappy. 
It  takes  an  effort  to  be  unhappy.  I  can't  tell  you 
what  the  matter  is.  One  drifts.  I've  been  drifting 

78 


MRS.  CHEYNE 


a  long  time.     I  think  I  have  too  much  money.     I 

want  to  want  something." 

"Don't  you  ever  want  anything  you  can't  have?" 
She  sat  upright,  and  her  voice,  instead  of  drawling 

languidly,  came  in  the  quick  accents  of  discovery. 

"Yes,  I  do.     I've  just  found  out.     You've  actually 

created  a  new  interest  in  life.     Won't  you  be  nice 

to  me?     Come  and  see  me  often  and  tell  me  more 

fairy  tales." 


CHAPTER  VH 

BRAEBANK 

I     CAN'T  see,   Curtis,"  said  Mrs.    Janney,  in 
the    smoking  room,    "why  you   chose   to   ask 
those  vulgar  Wrays  to  Braebank.     It  almost 
seems  as  if  you  were  carrying  your  business   re 
lationships  too  far.     The  woman  is  pretty  enough, 
and  I  dare  say  her  easy  Western  ways  will  be  at 
tractive  to  the  masculine  portion  of  your  guests. 
But  the  man  is  impossible  —  absolutely  impossible! 
He  does  not  even  use  correct  English,  and  his  man 
ners  —  atrocious!" 

The  palms  of  the  good  lady's  hands,  as  she  raised 
them  in  her  righteous  wrath,  were  very  pink  on  the 
inside,  like  the  petals  of  rosebuds.  They  were 
sheltered  hands,  very  soft  and  plump,  and  their 
fingers  bore  many  large  and  expensive  jewels.  Mrs. 
Janney  was  made  up  wholly  of  convex  curves,  which 
neither  art  nor  starvation  could  deflect.  The 
roundness  of  her  face  was  further  accented  by 
concentric  curves  at  brows,  mouth,  and  chin,  which 
gave  the  impression  of  a  series  of  parentheses.  It 
would  not  be  stretching  the  figure  too  far  to  add  that 
Mrs.  Janney,  in  most  of  their  few  affiliations,  bore 
a  somewhat  parenthetical  relation  to  her  husband. 
Her  life,  as  well  as  her  conversation,  was  made  up 

80 


BRAEBANK 


of  "asides,"  to  which  Curtis  Janney  was  not  in 
the  habit  of  paying  the  slightest  attention.  Her 
present  remarks,  however,  seemed  to  merit  a  reply. 
"My  dear  Amelia,"  he  said,  tolerantly,  from  his 
easy  chair,  "when  we  were  first  married  you  used 
to  say  that  all  a  man  needed  to  make  his  way  in 
New  York  was  a  dress  suit  and  a  smile.  Wray  has 
both.  Besides,  it  is  quite  necessary  to  be  on  good 
terms  with  him.  As  for  his  wife,  I  have  rarely  seen 
a  girl  who  created  such  an  agreeable  impression, 
Cornelius  Bent  has  taken  them  up.  He  has  his 
reasons  for  doing  so.  So  have  I.  I'll  trouble  you, 
therefore,  to  be  civil. " 

He  got  up  and  put  down  his  cigar,  and  Mrs. 
Janney  shrugged  her  shoulders  into  a  more  pro- 
nounced  convexity. 

"I  won't  question  your  motives,  Curtis,  though, 
of  course,  I  know  you  have  them.  But  I  don't 
think  we  can  afford  to  jeopardize  our  standing  by 
always  taking  up  new  people  like  the  Wrays.  The 
man  is  vulgar  —  the  woman,  provincial. " 

Mr.  Janney  by  this  time  had  taken  up  the  tele 
phone  and  was  ordering  the  wagons  to  the  station. 

"Why,  Gretchen,  dear!  You're  late.  It's  al 
most  train  time."  Miss  Janney  entered  in  riding 
clothes  from  the  terrace,  bringing  traces  of  the  fine 
November  weather.  She  was  a  tall,  slender  girl 
of  the  athletic  type,  sinuous  and  strong,  with  a  skin 
so  firm  and  ruddy  from  the  air  that  it  glowed  crisply 
as  though  shot  with  mica. 

"Is  it,  mother?     Cortland  and  I  had  such  a  won- 

81 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


derful  ride.  He  is  really  quite  the  nicest  man  in 
the  world.  Aren't  you,  Cort?" 

"Of  course  I  am,"  said  Bent,  laughing,  as  he 
entered,  "anything  Gretchen  says.  That's  be 
cause  I  never  made  love  to  her,  isn't  it,  Gretchen?" 

"Partly.  Love  is  so  silly.  You  know,  daddy, 
I've  given  Cort  his  conge. " 

Janney  turned  testily.  "What  nonsense  you 
children  talk!" 

"I  mean  it,  though,  daddy,"  she  went  on  calmly. 
"I'm  too  fond  of  Cort  ever  to  think  of  marrying 
him.  We  settled  that  still  more  definitely  to-day. 
Since  you  were  so  inconsiderate,  you  two,  as  to 
neglect  to  provide  me  with  a  brother,  I've  adopted 
Cort." 

"Really,  Gretchen,  you're  getting  more  hopeless 
every  day,"  sighed  her  mother.  "What  does  Cort- 
land  say?" 

"I?"  laughed  Bent.  "What  is  there  left  forme 
to  say?  We're  hopelessly  friendly,  that's  all.  I'm 
afraid  there's  nothing  left  but  to  take  to  drink. 
May  I?" 

He  lifted  the  decanter  of  Scotch  and  poured  him 
self  a  drink,  but  Janney,  with  a  scowl  in  the  direction 
of  his  daughter,  left  the  room. 

"You  mustn't  speak  so  heartlessly,  dear,"  said 
Mrs.  Janney.  "You  know  it  always  makes  your 
father  angry.  You  must  be  patient  with  her, 
Cortland." 

"I  am,"  said  that  gentleman,  helping  himself 
to  a  cigarette.  "I'm  the  soul  of  patience,  Mrs. 

m 


BRAEBANK 


Janney.  I've  pleaded  and  begged.  I've  even 
threatened  suicide,  but  all  to  no  purpose.  There's 
no  satisfaction  in  shooting  one's  self  on  account  of 
a  girl  who's  going  to  laugh  at  your  funeral. " 

He  threw  himself  hopelessly  into  a  big  English 
chair  and  sighed  exuberantly,  while  Gretchen  gave 
him  a  reproachful  look  over  her  mother's  shoulder. 

"My  poor  boy,  don't  give  her  up,"  said  the  lady, 
genuinely.  "All  will  come  right  in  time,  I'm  sure. 
You  must  be  sweeter  to  him,  Gretchen.  You 
really  must. " 

"I  suppose  I  must,"  said  Gretchen  with  an  air 
of  resignation.  "I'll  not  be  any  more  cruel  than 
I  can  help. " 

When  the  good  lady  left  the  room  they  looked 
at  each  other  for  a  moment,  and  then  burst  into 
shameless  laughter. 

"Poor  mother!  She  never  had  a  sense  of  humor. 
I  wouldn't  laugh  at  your  funeral,  though,  Cort. 
That  was  unkind.  You  know,  I'm  afraid  father 
is  very  much  provoked. " 

Bent's  laughter  died,  and  he  gazed  at  the  ash  of 
his  cigarette.  "He's  really  quite  serious  about  it, 
isn't  he?" 

"Oh,  yes.  It's  an  awful  nuisance,  because,  in 
his  way,  he  has  a  will  as  strong  as  mine." 

Bent  smiled.  "I'm  glad  I'm  not  in  his  boots. 
You're  fearfully  stubborn,  Gretchen. " 

"Because  I  insist  on  marrying  whom  I  choose?" 

"Because  you  insist  on  not  marrying  me." 

Miss  Janney  sank  in  a  chair  by  the  table,  finger- 

83 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


ing  the  pages  of  a  magazine.     She  said  nothing  in 
reply,  but  in  a  few  moments  spoke  carelessly. 

"Tell  me  something  about  Lawrence  Berkely, 
will  you?" 

"Larry?  You've  only  met  him  once.  Your  curi 
osity  is  indecent. " 

"You  know  he's  coming  here  with  the  Wr ays." 

"Not  really?  That's  going  a  bit  strong.  I  don't 
think  I'll  stand  for  that." 

"Oh,  yes,  you  will.  He's  quite  as  good  as  we 
are.  He  belongs  to  the  Berkelys  of  Virginia.  Mrs. 
Rumsen  knows  them. " 

"That's    convincing.     Any    one    Aunt    Caroline 

knows  will  need  no  card  to  Saint  Peter.     Oh,  Larry's 

all  right.     But  I  warn  you  not  to  fall  in  love  with 

him." 

-  "That's  precisely  what  I've  done,"  she  asserted. 

He  glanced  at  her  amusedly,  but  she  met  his  look 
coolly. 

"It's  true,  Cort.  He's  actually  the  only  man  I've 
met  since  I  came  out  who  really  isn't  eligible.  I'm 
so  delighted.  Of  course,  father  would  never  have 
permitted  it  if  he'd  only  known  that  Mr.  Berkely 
wasn't  rich.  He  hasn't  much  use  for  poor  people. 
Oh,  he's  well  enough  off,  I  suppose,  as  Mr.  Wray's 
partner,  but  then  he  doesn't  own  any  of  that  fabu 
lous  gold  mine." 

"How  do  you  know  all  these  things?" 

"He  told  me.  Besides,  he's  terribly  good  looking, 
and  has  had  something  the  matter  with  his  lungs." 

"Well,  of  all  the " 

84 


BRAEBANK 


"That's  why  he's  been  living  in  the  West.  But 
he's  quite  well  now.  Isn't  it  splendid?  I  only 
hope  he'll  like  me.  Don't  you  think  he  has  wonder 
ful  eyes?  " 

"I'm  sure  I  never  noticed.  See  here,  Gretohen, 
you're  talking  rot.  I'm  going  to  tell  your  father. " 

"Oh,  I  don't  care,"  airily.  "But  if  you  do,  I'll 
tell  Mr.  Wray." 

"Wray?" 

"Yes  —  that  you're  in  love  with  his  wife.** 

Miss  Janney  exploded  this  bombshell  casually 
while  she  removed  her  hat,  watching  him  carefully 
meanwhile  in  the  mirror.  If  she  had  planned  her 
coup,  she  could  not  have  been  more  fully  rewarded, 
for  Cortland  started  up,  clutching  at  the  chair  arms, 
his  face  aghast;  but  when  his  eyes  met  hers  in  the 
mirror  he  sank  back  again,  laughing  uneasily. 

"What  —  who  on  earth  put  that  silly  idea  into 
your  head?" 

"You  —  yourself.  I  watched  you  at  the  War- 
ringtons. " 

"What  nonsense!  I've  known  Camilla  a  long 
time." 

"  Not  so  long  as  you've  known  me.  And  you  never 
looked  at  me  like  that."  She  laid  her  hat  beside 
her  crop  on  the  table,  then  turned  quickly  and  put 
her  hand  over  his  on  the  chair  arm.  "You  may 
trust  me,  Cortland,  dear.  If  I'm  going  to  be  your 
sister,  I  may  as  well  begin  at  once.  It's  true,  isn't 
it?" 

He  remained  silent  a  long  while,  his  gaze  fixed 

85 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


on  the  open  fire  before  him.  Then  at  last  he  turned 
his  hand  over  so  that  his  fingers  clasped  hers.  "  Yes," 
he  whispered,  "it's  true,  Gretchen.  It's  true.' 

"I'm  so  sorry,  Cort,"  she  murmured.  "I  sus 
pected  from  your  letters.  I  wish  I  might  have 
helped  you.  I  feel  somehow  that  I  am  to  blame  — 
that  we  ever  got  engaged.  Won't  you  tell  me  how 
it  happened  that  she  married  him  —  instead  of 

you?" 

"No,  no,"  he  said,  rising  and  walking  to  the 
window.  "She  —  she  married  Wray  —  because 
—  because  she  loved  him,  that's  all.  I  wasn't 
the  man. " 

Gretchen  watched  him  wistfully,  still  standing  be 
side  the  chair  he  had  vacated,  full  of  the  first  deep 
sympathy  she  had  ever  known.  Slowly  she  walked 
over  and  put  her  hand  timidly  on  his  shoulder. 

"You'll  forgive  me,  won't  you,  Cort?  I  wouldn't 
have  spoken  if  I  had  known  how  deeply  you  felt." 
She  turned  aside  with  a  bitter  little  laugh.  "Isn't 
it  queer  that  life  should  be  so  full  of  complications? 
Everybody  expects  you  and  me  to  marry  each 
other  —  at  least,  everybody  but  ourselves,  and  we 
won't  because  —  why  is  it  that  we  won't?  Chiefly 
because  everybody  expects  us  to  —  and  because 
it's  so  easy.  I'm  sure  if  there  was  any  reason  why 
we  shouldn't  marry,  I'd  love  you  quite  madly. 
Instead  of  which,  you're  in  love  with  a  married 
woman,  and  I  —  I'm  interested  in  a  youth  with 
sad  romantic  eyes  and  an  impaired  breathing 
apparatus." 


BRAEBANK 


"Gretchen,  don't  be  silly,"  he  said,  smiling  in 
spite  of  himself. 

"I'm  really  serious  —  you'll  see."  She  stopped 
and  clutched  Bent's  arm.  "Tell  me,  Cort.  He's 
not  married  already,  is  he?" 

"You  silly  child.  Not  that  I  know  of.  Berkely 
is  a  conscientious  sort  of  a  bird  —  he  wouldn't 
have  let  you  make  love  to  him " 

"I  didn't"  with  dignity,  "we  talked  about  the 
weather  mostly. " 

"That  must  have  been  romantic." 

"Cort,  I'll  not  speak  to  you  again."  She  rushed 
past  him  to  the  window,  her  head  erect.  Outside 
was  the  whirr  of  an  arriving  motor.  "  How  tiresome. 
Here  come  the  Billy  Havilands,"  she  said,  "and 
they'll  want  to  be  playing  'Auction'  at  once.  They 
always  do.  As  if  there  was  nothing  but  'Bridge' 
in  the  world ! "  She  sniffed.  "  I  wish  we  were  going 
to  be  fewer  in  number.  Just  you  and  I  and " 

"And  Larry?" 

"Yes  —  and  Mrs.  Wray,"  she  put  in  viciously. 

Curtis  Janney  was  already  in  the  big  stair  hall 
to  welcome  the  arrivals. 

"Billy  —  Dorothy  —  welcome!  Of  course  you 
had  to  bring  your  buzz-wagon.  I  suppose  I'll  be 
driven  to  build  a  garage  some  day  —  but  it  will  be 
well  down  by  the  East  Lodge.  Do  you  expect  to 
follow  in  that  thing?  Rita!  Awfully  glad.  Your 
hunter  came  over  last  night.  He  looks  fit  as  a  fiddle. 
Aren't  you  cold?  Gretchen,  dear,  ring  for  tea." 

Noiseless  maids  and  men-servants  appeared, 

87 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


appropriated  wraps  and  hand  baggage,  and  de 
parted. 

"We  timed  it  nicely,"  said  Haviland,  looking  at 
his  watch.  "Forty-seven  from  the  ferry.  We 
passed  your  wagons  a  moment  ago.  Gretchen, 
who's  the  red-haired  girl  with  the  Rumsens?" 

"Ettu,  Brute?  That's  Mrs.  Wray.  None  of  us  has 
a  chance  when  she's  around.  Here  they  are  now." 

The  two  station  wagons  drew  up  at  the  terrace, 
and  the  guests  dismounted.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Rumsen 
with  the  Wrays  in  the  station  wagon,  and  the  Bar 
oness  Charny,  the  Warringtons,  Jack  Perot,  and 
Lawrence  Berkely  in  the  'bus. 

"Well,  Worthy!  Got  here  after  all!  Caroline, 
Mrs.  Wray,  would  you  like  to  go  right  up  or  will  you 
wait  for  tea?  Wray,  there's  something  stronger 
just  inside.  Show  him,  won't  you,  Billy?" 

Wray  entered  the  big  hall  with  a  renewed  ap 
preciation  of  the  utility  of  wealth.  The  houses  in 
New  York  which  he  had  seen  were,  of  course,  built 
upon  a  more  moderate  scale.  He  had  still  to  dis 
cover  that  the  men  of  wealth  were  learning  to  make 
their  week-ends  out  of  town  longer,  and  that  the 
real  home-life  of  many  of  them  had  been  transferred 
to  the  country,  where  broad  acres  and  limitless 
means  enabled  them  to  gratify  their  tastes  in  de 
veloping  great  estates  which  would  hand  down  their 
names  in  the  architectural  history  of  the  country 
when  their  city  houses  should  be  overwhelmed  and 
lost  in  the  march  of  commerce.  Curtis  Janney, 
for  all  his  great  responsibilities,  was  an  open-air 

88 


BRAEBANK 


man,  and  he  took  a  real  delight  in  his  great  Tudor 
house  and  stables.  The  wide  entrance  hall  which  so 
impressed  Jeff  was  designed  in  the  ripe  Palladian 
manner  which  distinguished  the  later  work  of  the 
great  Inigo  Jones.  This  lofty  room  was  the  key 
note  of  the  building  —  a  double  cube  in  shape, 
the  staircase  which  led  from  the  centre  opposite 
the  door  ornate  in  a  character  purely  classic  —  the 
doorways  to  the  other  rooms  on  the  same  floor 
masterful  in  structural  arrangement  and  elegant 
in  their  grace  and  simplicity.  It  almost  seemed  as 
though  the  room  had  been  designed  as  a  framework 
for  the  two  wonderful  Van  Dykes  which  were  placed 
at  each  side  of  the  stairway. 

Jeff  smiled  as  he  walked  into  the  smoking  room 
—  the  smile  of  possession.  He  realized,  as  never 
before,  that  taste,  elegance,  style,  were  things  which 
could  be  bought  with  money,  as  one  would  buy 
stock  or  a  piece  of  real  estate.  The  only  difference 
between  Curtis  Janney  and  himself  was  that  his 
host  had  an  ancestor  or  two  —  while  Jeff  had  none. 

Miss  Janney  had  quietly  and  cleverly  appropriated 
Lawrence  Berkely  and  was  already  on  her  way  to 
the  conservatory.  Jack  Perot,  who  painted  the  por 
traits  of  fashionable  ladies,  had  taken  the  Baroness 
to  the  Long  Room,  where  the  English  pictures  were 
hung.  Camilla,  after  a  few  polite  comments  on  the 
dignity  of  the  house,  sat  a  little  aside  in  silence. 
Cortland  Bent,  after  a  glance  toward  the  door  through 
which  Miss  Janney  had  vanished,  dropped  into  the 
vacant  chair  beside  her. 

7  89 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


"I'm  so  glad  to  see  you,"  she  said  genuinely. 
"You  know  the  magnificence  is  rather  bewildering." 
She  paused  and  lowered  her  voice.  "It  seems  as  if 
I  hadn't  seen  you  for  ages." 

"Yes,"  he  murmured.  "I'm  expecting  wings 
any  day  now.  I'm  almost  too  good  to  be 
true." 

"You're  an  angel,"  she  smiled.  "I  want  you  to 
be  good,  and  I'm  sure  I  want  you  to  be  true.  And 
yet"  —  she  paused  —  "this  seems  the  only  case  in 
the  world  where  to  be  true  is  to  be  bad. " 

"You  can't  make  the  sun  stop  shining." 

"I  don't  think  I  want  it  to  stop  shining  alto 
gether.  You  see,  I'm  selfish.  I  want  it  under  a 
cloud,  that's  all." 

There  was  a  pause  —  significant  to  them  both. 

"I  am  trying,  Camilla.  I  am  doing  my  best. 
You  appreciate  that?  " 

"Yes,  but  it  shouldn't  be  so  hard.  I  don't 
think  it  would  be  hard  for  me  in  your  place!" 

His  eyes  questioned. 

"Miss  Janney  —  she  is  adorable."  She  looked 
over  the  rim  of  her  cup  at  him  as  she  finished 
her  tea.  "My  dear  Cort, "  she  laughed,  as  she 
handed  it  to  him,  "the  best  I  can  say  for  you  is 
that  you  have  the  worst  taste  in  the  world.  I'm 
really  in  love  with  her  myself.  I  can't  see  what 
you  could  have  been  thinking  of " 

"Any  more  than  /  can  see  what  you  were  think 
ing  of." 

There  was  a  refuge  from  the  danger  toward  which 
90 


BRAEBANK 


she  felt  herself  drifting,  and  she  took  it,  addressing 
her  nearest  neighbor. 

"Mrs.  Cheyne,  don't  you  think  men  have  abomi 
nable  taste?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  abominable, "  laughed  the  lady.  "  Ugh ! 
I  hate  mustaches,  too,  don't  you?" 

Camilla  turned  a  shade  rosier,  but  her  discomfiture 
was  lost  in  the  laughter  of  those  who  remembered 
that  Cheyne  had  worn  a  beard. 

"You  know  I  didn't  mean  just  that,"  explained 
Camilla.  "I  meant  their  appreciation  of  women 
—  their  sense  of  the  esthetic " 

"Anesthetic,  Mrs.  Wray.  That's  the  only  word 
for  a  man's  perceptions.  A  French  frock,  a  smart 
hat,  a  little  deft  color,  and  the  plainest  of  us  is  a 
match  for  the  gayest  Lothario.  They're  only  bipeds, 
instincts  on  legs " 

"Oh,  I  say  now,  Rita,"  laughed  Bent. 

"We  can't  stand  for  that,  Mrs.  Cheyne,"  put  in 
their  host.  "I  suppose  you'd  think  me  ungallant 
if  I  asked  you  what  kind  of  instincts  women 
were. " 

"Instincts  with  wings,"  she  purred,  "angels  by 
intuition,  rhapsodists  by  occupation,  and  sirens 
by  inheritance.  We're  not  in  the  least  afraid  of 
you,  Mr.  Janney. " 

"I  should  think  not.  For  my  part,  if  I  knew  that 
one  of  you  was  camping  on  my  trail,  I'd  give  in  at 
once. " 

"I'm  so  glad.  It's  a  pet  theory  of  mine  that 
when  a  woman  really  sets  her  cap  for  a  man  he  had 

91 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


better  give  up  at  once,  for  she  will  win  him  —  for 
tune  favoring  —  in  the  end.  Don't  you  agree, 
Mrs.  Wray?" 

"I've  never  thought  about  it,  Mrs.  Cheyne," 
said  Camilla  slowly.  "By  fortune  you  mean  pro 
pinquity?  " 

"Oh,   yes  —  and  other  things "  laughingly. 

"For  instance,  if  I  had  fallen  in  love  with  a  man  I 
shouldn't  stop  to  consider.  If  he  was  another 
woman's  husband  —  say  your  husband,  Mrs.  Wray 
—  that  would  only  add  a  new  element  of  interest. 
The  more  difficult  an  undertaking,  the  greater  satis 
faction  in  the  achievement. " 

Camilla  looked  at  her  steadily  for  a 
moment.  "I've  never  thought  that  any  man 
ought  to  be  dignified  by  such  extraordinary  effort. 
A  husband  so  easily  won  away  is  not  worth 
keeping. " 

The  two  women  had  only  met  once  before.  They 
both  smiled,  sweetly  tolerant,  their  weapons  politely 
sheathed.  Only  Cortland  Bent,  who  knew  the 
hearts  of  both,  sensed  the  difference  between 
them. 

"You're  very  flattering,  Rita,"  he  broke  in, 
"especially  to  the  bipeds.  You've  carefully  de 
prived  us  of  every  attribute  but  legs.  But  we  still 
have  those  —  and  can  run. " 

"But  you  don't,"  laughed  Mrs.  Cheyne. 
"That's  just  the  point.  You  like  the  game  — 
all  of  you.  Even  your  legs  aren't  proof  against 
flattery." 

92 


BRAEBANK 


"Stop,  Rita,"  put  in  Betty  Haviland.  "You're 
letting  out  all  the  secrets  of  the  craft. " 

"Come,  Camilla,"  said  Cortland,  rising,  "wouldn't 
you  like  to  see  the  horses  and  dogs?  It's  not  nearly 
dark  yet. " 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  cried  gladly.  And  then  to  her 
host,  "What  am  I  to  expect,  Mr.  Janney,  silver  feed 
troughs  and  sterilized  water?" 

"Oh,  no,"  said  their  host,  "not  yet.  But  they're 
worth  it." 

The  pair  made  their  way  through  the  library 
and  a  small  corridor  which  led  to  the  south 
portico. 

"How  do  you  like  my  cousin  Rita?"  Bent  asked 
when  they  were  alone  outside. 

"Is  she  your  cousin?" 

"Through  my  mother  —  the  Davidges.  Quite 
wonderful,  eh?" 

"I  don't  like  her.  You  don't  mind  my  saying  so, 
do  you?" 

"Not  in  the  least.  She's  not  your  sort,  Camilla. 
But  then  nobody  ever  takes  Rita  seriously.  She 
doesn't  want  them  to.  She's  a  spoiled  darling. 
Everybody  pets  her.  That  bored  kind  of  clever 
ness  is  effective  —  but  everybody  knows  she  doesn't 
mean  half  she  says. " 

"I'd  be  sorry  to  think  she  meant  anything  she 
says,"  severely. 

Bent  laughed.  "I'm  afraid  you're  too  sincere 
lor  my  crowd,  Camilla. " 

"Who  is  Mr.  Cheyne?"  she  asked  suddenly. 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


"A  perfectly  amiable  person  with  a  bald  head  and 
a  passion  for  domesticity  and  music,  both  of  which 
Rita  affects  to  despise. " 

"Why  did  she  marry  him  then?" 

"Nobody  knows.  It  was  one  of  the  marriages 
that  weren't  made  in  Heaven,  that's  all." 

"Few  marriages  are,  but  they're  none  the  less 
binding  because  of  that. " 

"Yes,  I  know,"  he  said  soberly. 

She  recognized  the  minor  note  and  turned  the 
subject  quickly. 

"What  a  heavenly  spot!  These  are  the  stables, 
of  course.  And  the  buildings  beyond?" 

"The  kennels.  Mr.  Janney  has  his  own  pack  — 
corking  hounds.  They've  been  breeding  this  strain 
a  long  while  in  England.  I  suppose  they're  as  good 
as  any  in  the  world." 

"I'm  wild  to  see  them." 

The  head  groom  met  them  at  the  door  of  the 
carriage  house  and  showed  them  through.  The 
much  despised  touring  car  of  the  Havilands  oc 
cupied  a  negligible  part  of  the  great  floor.  The 
coach,  brake,  carryall,  station  wagons,  victoria, 
I  runabouts,  and  brake-carts  —  all  in  royal  blue  with 
primrose  running-gear  —  looked  down  with  an  old- 
fashioned  dignity  and  disapprobation  on  this  prod 
uct  of  a  new  civilization.  The  paneled  walls  of 
the  room  were  covered  with  sporting  prints,  and  the 
trophy  room,  with  its  cabinets  of  cups  and  ribbons, 
bore  eloquent  testimony  to  Curtis  Janney's  success 
at  horse  shows  in  every  large  city  of  the  country. 

94 


BRAEBANK 


In  the  stables  Camilla  lost  all  sense  of  restraint.  A 
stable  had  never  meant  anything  like  this.  The 
cement  floors  were  spotless,  and  the  long  line  of 
stalls  of  polished  wood  with  brass  newels  and  fittings 
shone  like  the  silver  in  the  drawing  room.  The  mats 
and  blankets  were  of  blue,  and  each  bore  the  mono 
gram  of  the  owner  in  yellow. 

"These  are  the  coach  and  carriage  horses,  Camilla," 
Bent  explained. 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  put  in  the  groom.  "The 
hunters  are  here,"  and  he  led  the  way  to  the  box 
stalls. 

"Where  is  Mackinaw?  Mr.  Janney  promised 
him  to  me  for  to-morrow. " 

"Oh,  Mackinaw  is  right  here,  ma'am.  And  a  fine 
bit  of  flesh  he  is."  He  went  in  and  threw  off  the 
blanket,  while  Camilla  followed.  "Not  a  blemish. 
He'll  take  his  four  rails  like  they  was  two.  Just 
give  him  his  head,  and  you  won't  be  far  off  when 
they  kill." 

"Oh,  what  a  darling!  I'm  wild  to  get  on  him.  Is 
he  gentle?" 

She  patted  him  on  the  neck,  and  he  nosed  her 
pocket  for  sugar.  One  by  one  she  saw  them  all, 
and  they  reached  the  kennels  in  time  for  the  even 
ing  meal. 

"Oh,  well,"  she  sighed  as  they  turned  back  toward 
the  house,  "I'm  almost  reconciled  to  riches.  One 
could  live  in  a  place  like  this  and  forget  there  was 
anything  else  in  the  world." 

"Yes,  perhaps  some  people  might,"  he  said  sig- 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


nificantly.  "I  couldn't,  even  if  I  wanted  to.  The 
only  real  joy  in  life  is  the  memory  of  Saguache 
Peak  at  sunset." 

"Sunsets  pass  —  they're  symbols  of  the  brevity 
of  things  beautiful "  * 

"But  the  night  is  long, "  he  murmured.  " So  long, 
and  so  dark." 


CHAPTER  VHI 

THE   BRUSH 

JEFF  ft  RAY  was  learning  many  things. 
The  BJ  rival  of  Lawrence  Berkely  on  the 
scene  had  at  first  seemed  rather  alarming. 
Several  wires  in  cipher  before  Larry  reached  New 
York  had  apprised  Jen7  of  an  uncertain  state  of 
mind  in  members  of  the  directorate  of  the  Denver 
and  Western  Railroad  Company.  Collins,  Hardy, 
and  even  Jim  Noakes  had  been  approached  by 
representatives  of  the  Chicago  and  Utah  with  flat 
tering  offers  for  their  interests  in  the  D.  &  W.,  and 
Berkely  reported  them  on  the  horns  of  a  dilemma. 
Collins  and  Hardy  were  big  owners  of  land  which 
lay  along  the  trunk  line  and  were  dependent  on 
that  company  for  all  facilities  for  moving  their 
wheat  and  other  crops.  It  had  not  always  been 
easy  to  get  cars  to  haul  their  stuff  to  market,  and 
this  fall  they  only  got  their  hay  and  potatoes  in  by 
a  dispensation  from  the  men  higher  up.  Noakes, 
as  Jeff  well  knew,  owned  stock  in  the  through  line, 
but  the  showing  of  the  Saguache  Mountain  De 
velopment  Company  for  the  year  had  been  so  strong 
that  he  had  felt  sure  his  associates  would  see  the 
importance  of  keeping  their  interests  intact,  tem 
porizing,  where  they  could,  with  the  Denver  crowd, 

97 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


who  had  it  in  their  power  to  threaten  his  connections 
at  Saguache. 

Mulrennan  was  wiring  Jeff,  too — copiously.  There 
was  an  election  pending  in  Kinney,  and  the 
Denver  crowd  had  advanced  a  candidate  for  judge 
in  opposition  to  the  party  with  which  Pete  was 
affiliated.  Other  reports  both  in  New  York  and 
from  the  West  indicated  a  strong  pressure  from  the 
East  on  the  officers  of  the  D.  &  W.  Berkely  viewed 
all  these  indications  of  a  concerted  movement  against 
Jeff's  railroad  with  increasing  dismay  and  lost  no 
time  in  giving  him  his  opinion  as  to  the  possible 
outcome  of  the  raid. 

But  Jeff  apparently  was  losing  no  sleep  over  the 
situation.  He  was  fully  aware  that  the  whole 
movement  had  originated  in  New  York,  and  that 
Cornelius  Bent  and  his  crowd  were  back  of  it.  He 
knew,  too,  that  the  Amalgamated  Reduction  Company 
wanted  his  new  smelter.  Long  ago  he  had  foreseen 
this  possibility  and  had  laid  his  own  plans  accord 
ingly.  The  Denver  and  Saguache  was  his.  With 
Noakes,  Collins,  and  Hardy,  he  had  a  control  of 
the  Denver  and  Western,  but  their  possible  defection, 
which  he  had  also  foreseen,  had  made  other  plans 
necessary.  Three  months  before  he  came  East  he 
had  unobtrusively  secured  through  other  persons 
aright  of  way  from  Saguache  to  Pueblo,  a  distance 
of  one  hundred  and  twenty  miles.  The  line  of  this 
survey  was  well  to  the  southward  and  would  open 
up  a  country  occupied  only  by  small  settlers  under 
the  Homestead  laws.  He  had  turned  the  organi- 


THE  BRUSH 


zation  of  the  Development  Company  loose  for  two 
months  on  that  vast  tract  of  land,  and  had,  at  a 
reasonably  small  expense,  secured  by  purchase  or 
long-time  options  the  most  valuable  land  along  his 
new  line.  His  engineers  were  Germans,  imported 
for  the  work,  who  had  no  affiliations  with  other  roads, 
and  his  plans  had  so  far  worked  out  to  a  T.  He  had 
also  worked  out  (on  paper)  an  irrigation  scheme  for 
the  whole  proposition. 

At  Pueblo  the  new  road  would  connect  with  the 
Denver  and  California,  a  line  which  had  no  connec 
tion  with  the  Chicago  and  Utah,  and  which  had  even 
been  recently  engaged  in  a  rate  war  with  the  other 
roads  to  the  coast.  Its  officers  were  friendly,  and 
Wray's  plans  had  all  been  worked  out  in  their  con 
fidence  and  with  their  approval.  Indeed,  a  good 
part  of  his  backing  had  been  furnished  by  capital 
ists  in  San  Francisco. 

Jeff  felt  sure  that  the  first  move  to  capture  the 
D.  &  W.  was  only  a  bluff,  and  in  his  conferences 
with  General  Bent,  Janney,  and  Mclntyre,  had 
played  a  waiting  game.  The  "Daisy"  was  now  a 
producer  —  not  a  producer  like  the  "Lone  Tree"  — 
but  it  was  paying,  and  the  "Comet,"  a  new  prospect 
that  had  been  opened  farther  south,  was  doing  a 
business  of  a  hundred  to  the  ton.  His  stamps  were 
working  night  and  day,  and  the  smelter  was  doing 
its  share  in  Wray's  triumphant  progress.  All  his 
other  plans  were  working  out,  and  the  longer  he 
could  wait  the  more  formidable  he  could  make  him 
self  as  an  adversary.  He  knew  that  the  crux  of  the 

99 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


situation  was  the  ambition  of  the  Amalgamated 
Reduction  Company.  They  controlled  every  smelt 
ing  concern  in  three  states,  and  Wray's  big  plant 
was  a  thorn  in  their  side.  By  waiting,  Jeff  hoped 
that  he  could  make  them  show  their  hands,  so  he 
made  no  attempt  to  force  an  issue,  being  content 
to  play  the  part  they  themselves  had  assigned  him. 
Their  hospitality,  his  welcome  into  their  exclusive 
set,  his  use  of  their  clubs  (to  two  of  which  he  had 
been  proposed  for  membership),  the  business  as 
sociations  they  were  planning  for  him,  did  little  to 
convince  Jeff  of  the  sincerity  of  their  attentions.  But 
he  acted  the  dupe  with  a  good  grace,  with  one  eye 
to  windward,  greatly  amused  at  their  friendliness, 
which,  while  it  failed  to  flatter,  gave  him  an  in 
creasing  sense  of  the  importance  of  his  mission. 
General  Bent  had  intimated  that  within  a  week  or 
so  he  would  be  in  a  position  to  make  a  definite 
proposition  for  his  railroad,  which,  of  course,  meant 
the  absorption  of  Wray's  plant  into  the  Trust. 
Financially,  there  were  great  possibilities  in  a  friendly 
association  with  these  men. 

They  were  closely  in  touch  with  No.  —  Broadway 
and,  if  they  chose,  could  point  the  way  to  power  such 
as  he  had  never  dreamed  of.  But  in  his  heart  he 
mistrusted  them.  He  thought  of  Mrs.  Rumsen's 
words  of  warning,  and  he  knew  that  what  she  said 
was  true.  They  would  not  spare  him  if  he  offered 
them  a  chance  which  would  give  them  a  command 
of  the  situation.  Well,  they  hadn't  command  of  it 
yet,  and  he  knew  he  held  some  cards  which  they  had 

100 


THE  BRUSH 


never  seen.  If  they  continued  to  weave  their  web 
as  they  had  begun  it,  there  would  still  be  time  to 
side-step. 

Meanwhile,  he  gave  himself  up  to  a  thorough  en 
joyment  of  the  situation.  There  was  nothing  he 
liked  better  than  a  fight,  and  the  fact  that  his  ad 
versaries  were  formidable  lent  a  zest  to  the  situa 
tion.  He  reassured  Larry,  sent  a  lot  of  wires  to 
Mulrennan,  took  a  few  successful  flyers  in  the 
stock  market  (which  went  to  show  that  his  luck  had 
not  yet  turned),  and  spent  his  leisure  moments  in 
a  riding  school  uptown  going  over  the  jumps  with 
Camilla. 

Curtis  Janney's  dinner  table  held  nothing  in 
common  with  General  Bent's.  The  viands  were 
well  cooked  but  not  heavy;  the  wines  of  a  lighter 
variety,  dry,  for  the  most  part,  and  sparkling;  the 
service  deft  and  dignified  but  not  austere.  The  table 
decorations  were  not  made  up  of  set-pieces  from  the 
florists',  but  came  from  Janney's  own  conservatories 
and  were  more  in  the  way  of  colored  embroideries 
against  the  damask  cloth.  General  conversation 
was,  therefore,  continuous,  and  every  person  at  this 
table  could  see  and  be  seen  by  every  other.  The 
formality  of  the  city  seemed  to  be  banished  by  com 
mon  consent,  and  Camilla,  who  went  in  with  Cort- 
land  Bent  (a  mischievous  dispensation  of  Miss 
Janney),felt  very  much  at  home  in  the  frank, friendly 
atmosphere.  Almost  all  the  conversation,  she  dis 
covered,  was  of  the  "horsey"  variety,  at  least  at 
Camilla's  end  of  the  table,  where  their  host  pre- 
101 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


sided,  and,  as  she  had  never  ridden  to  hounds  be 
fore,  she  seized  the  opportunity  to  acquaint  herself 
with  the  interesting  details  of  the  morning  which 
awaited  her. 

The  Sunnybrook  Hunt  Club,  she  learned,  was  only 
a  mile  away,  but  on  certain  days  the  Braebank 
hounds  were  used  and  members  of  the  Hunt  Club 
living  in  the  vicinity  added  their  numbers  to  the 
field.  There  were  plenty  of  foxes,  Mr.  Janney 
assured  her,  and  to-morrow  they  were  to  draw  a 
cover  over  toward  the  Chelten  Hills.  Mrs.  Cheyne, 
she  heard,  was  thought  to  be  the  best  horsewoman 
in  the  county.  Her  own  country-place  was  but  five 
miles  away,  and,  in  spite  of  her  boasted  love  of  ease, 
she  was  to  be  found  at  every  Meet  in  the  season, 
no  matter  how  early  the  hour.  To-morrow  was  to 
be  one  of  the  big  days  of  the  year,  Mr.  Janney 
informed  Camilla,  and  all  the  farmers  over  whose 
fields  they  hunted  were  invited  to  lunch  after  the 
Meet,  in  the  Long  Gallery. 

So  when,  in  the  early  morning,  after  a  light  break 
fast,  Mr.  Janney 's  guests  met  on  the  terrace,  it  was 
with  a  feeling  of  intense  interest  and  excitement 
that  Camilla  drew  on  her  gloves  and  joined  them. 
Of  the  men,  Curtis  Janney,  Worthington  Rumsen, 
and  Billy  Haviland  wore  the  pink  coats  with  gray 
facings  of  Sunnybrook,  while  their  host  wore  in 
addition  the  velvet  cap  which  distinguished  him  as 
Master  of  the  Hounds.  The  hounds  were  already  loose 
on  the  great  lawn,  while  the  Huntsman  and  Whip- 
pers-in  rode  among  them.  The  sun  had  not  yet  risen, 

102 


THE  BRUSH 


and  the  heavy  frost  which  lay  upon  the  lawns  caught 
the  chill  greenish  opalescent  tints  of  the  dawn. 
Mrs.  Cheyne  was  already  in  the  saddle,  her  hunter, 
a  lean,  rangy  boy,  pirouetting  and  mouthing  his 
bits,  eager  to  be  off.  The  Baroness  Charny,  dainty 
and  very  modish  in  a  dark  green  habit  and  silk 
hat,  was  chatting  gaily  with  Larry  Berkely  while 
a  groom  adjusted  her  stirrup-leather.  Mrs.  Havi- 
land,  Wray,  Perot,  and  her  host  were  waiting  for 
their  horses,  which  the  men  were  bringing  up  from 
the  stables.  Curtis  Janney  came  forward  gaily 
when  Camilla  appeared. 

"We're  all  here,  Mrs.  Wray,"  he  greeted  her. 
"The  others  will  meet  us  at  the  Chelten  Cross 
roads.  Your  horse  is  ready,"  and  then,  with  a 
glance  at  her  habit,  "You're  riding  across,  I  believe?" 

She  nodded.     "What  a  heavenly  morning!" 

"The  conditions  are  perfect.  This  white  frost 
will  soften  at  sun-up.  We'll  have  a  fine  run.  Won't 
you  let  me  help  you  mount?" 

They  were  all  in  the  saddle  in  a  few  moments 
and,  walking  their  horses,  with  the  Huntsman  and 
hounds  in  the  lead,  were  soon  on  their  way  past 
the  big  entrance  gates.  Camilla  saw  Jeff  draw 
his  horse  alongside  that  of  Mrs.  Cheyne  and  real 
ized  that  the  few  days  during  which  Lawrence 
Berkely  had  been  in  the  city  had  done  much  for 
her  husband's  appearance.  She  saw  the  look  and 
heard  the  laugh  with  which  Mrs.  Cheyne  greeted 
her  husband  and  experienced,  in  spite  of  herself,  a 
sense  of  annoyance  that  Jeff  continually  showed  a 

103 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


preference  for  her  company  to  that  of  any  of  the 
other  women  of  the  party.  She  knew  that  in  her 
heart  it  made  no  difference  to  her  into  whose  hands 
Jeff  entrusted  himself.  Mrs.  Cheyne's  languid  air 
of  patronage  had  provoked  her,  and  her  pride  re 
belled  at  the  thought  of  any  slight,  however  thought 
less,  at  the  hands  of  her  husband.  But  as  Cortland 
Bent  came  alongside  of  her,  she  realized  that  the 
friendly  relations  of  her  husband  and  his  feminine 
partner  might  progress  far  on  extravagantly  sen 
timental  lines  and  still  provide  no  just  cause  for 
complaint. 

If  Mrs.  Cheyne  had  any  mental  reservations, 
her  graceful  back  gave  no  sign  of  them.  She  sat 
her  horse  squarely,  even  a  little  stiffly,  which  brought 
into  contrast  the  easy,  rather  slouchy  seat  which 
Jeff  had  learned  on  the  plains.  But  Wray  was  in 
his  element.  On  a  horse,  at  least,  he  felt  himself 
the  equal  of  any  one  in  the  party  and  need  ask  no 
favors  or  give  any.  He  examined  Mrs.  Cheyne's 
costume  curiously.  Her  long  coat  was  a  mere  sub 
terfuge,  for  beneath  it  she  wore  white  breeches 
like  his  own  and  patent  leather  boots.  Her  hair 
was  done  in  a  compact  mass  on  the  back  of  her  head, 
and  her  hat  was  held  in  place  by  a  strong  elastic 
band.  The  shoulders  of  her  coat  were  square  and 
her  manner  easy.  He  recalled  the  flowing  feminine 
lines  of  her  costume  at  dinner  the  night  before,  and  it 
seemed  difficult  to  appreciate  that  she  was  the  same 
person  with  whom  he  had  talked  so  late  in  the  smok 
ing  room. 

104 


THE  BRUSH 


"Am  I  a  freak?"  she  asked  amiably,  "or  is  there 
a  hiatus  somewhere?  I  dressed  in  a  tearing  hurry 

—  without  a  maid. " 

"Oh,  no.     Only  you're  another  kind  of  a  person 

—  on  the  back  of  a  horse." 
"Ami?    How?" 

"Last  night  you  were  all  woman.  You  and  I 
are  making  friends  pretty  fast,  but  I  was  a  little 
afraid  of  you. " 

"Why?" 

"You're  different  at  night,  so  sleepy  and  hand 
some,  like  a  rattler  in  the  sun,  the  kind  you  hate  to 
wake  up  but  must,  to  see  how  far  he'll  strike. " 

She  laughed.  "I  don't  know  whether  I  like  that 
or  not.  And  yet  I  think  I  do.  How  am  I  different 
to-day?" 

"To-day  you're  only  part  woman.  The  rest  of 
you  is  just  kid.  If  it  wasn't  for  that  knot  of  hair 
I'd  take  you  for  a  boy  —  a  very  nice,  good-looking 
boy." 

She  looked  up  at  him  mischievously.  "You 
know  you  have  a  faculty  of  saying  unpleasant  things 
very  pleasantly.  I'm  glad  I  look  youthful.  My 
only  horror  is  of  growing  old.  I  don't  think  I  like 
the  idea  of  your  thinking  me  anything  unfeminine. " 

He  glanced  frankly  at  her  protruding  knee.  "I 
don't.  Most  of  you  is  woman  all  right  —  but  you 
don't  scare  me  half  as  much  this  morning." 

"Why  should  you  be  scared?  You  haven't 
struck  me  as  being  a  man  who  could  be  scared  at 
anything. " 

8  105 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


"Not  out  here,  but  inside  —  in  the  drawing  room 
—  you've  got  me  at  a  disadvantage.  I'm  new  to 
soft  speeches,  low  lights,  and  the  way  you  Eastern 
women  dress.  There's  too  much  glamor.  I  never 
know  whether  you  mean  what  you  say  or  whether 
it's  all  just  a  game  —  and  I'm  It." 

She  threw  back  her  head  and  laughed  with  a 
full  throat. 

"You  dear,  delicious,  impossible  creature !  Don't 
you  know  that  the  world  is  a  tangle  of  illusions, 
and  that  you  and  I  and  everybody  else  were  made 
to  help  keep  them  tangled?  Nobody  ever  means 
what  he  says.  Half  of  the  joy  in  life  consists  in 
making  people  think  you  different  from  what  you 
are." 

"Which  are  you?  The  kid  on  the  horse  or  the 
woman  —  back  there  —  last  night?  " 

"Do  you  think  I'll  tell  you?" 

"No,  I  suppose  not.  And  it  wouldn't  help  me 
much  if  you're  going  to  lie  about  it  —  I  mean, " 
he  corrected,  "if  you're  trying  to  keep  me  guessing." 

"My  poor,  deluded  friend,  you  wouldn't  believe 
me  if  I  told  you.  So  what's  the  use.  For  the  pres 
ent,"  she  kadded  defiantly,  "I'm  the  kid  on  the 
horse. " 

"And   I   guess   I'm   It,   all   right,"   he   laughed. 

As  they  approached  Chelten  Hills  they  made  out 
at  the  cross-roads  a  number  of  figures  on  horseback. 
The  sun,  a  pale  madder  ball,  had  suddenly  sprung 
from  behind  the  hills  and  painted  with  its  rosy  hues 
the  streaks  of  mist  which  hung  in  the  valleys  below 

106 


THE  BRUSH 


them.  As  its  shadows  deepened  and  its  glow  turned 
from  pink  to  orange,  the  figures  at  the  cross-roads 
stood  out  in  silhouette  against  the  frosty  meadows 
beyond.  There  were  three  women  and  at  least  a 
dozen  men,  most  of  them  wearing  the  club  colors, 
which  took  on  added  brilliancy  as  the  sun  emerged 
from  behind  the  distant  hills.  A  cloud  of  vapor 
rose  from  the  flanks  of  the  horses.  There  was  much 
"hallo-ing"  and  waving  of  riding  crops  as  the  Hunts 
man  and  his  hounds  rode  into  their  midst  and  the  two 
parties  met.  A  brief  consultation,  and  the  hounds 
were  sent  down  a  narrow  lane  and  across  a  wooden 
bridge  toward  a  patch  of  woods  which  darkened  the 
hillside  half  a  mile  away. 

"We'll  draw  that  cover  first,"  said  Curtis  Janney. 
"Perhaps  we  can  coax  the  old  Chelten  Fox  to  come 
out  to-day."  It  was  the  name  they  had  given  to  an 
old  quarry  of  theirs,  the  elusive  victor  in  half  a 
dozen  runs  in  the  last  few  years. 

Cortland  Bent  had  refused  to  relinquish  his  post 
beside  Camilla.  There  seemed  no  reason  why  he 
should,  since  Gretchen  had  so  completely  appro 
priated  Larry,  and  Jeff,  Mrs.  Cheyne 

"Be  careful,  Camilla,"  he  was  saying.  "You're 
new  at  this  game,  and  the  going  is  none  too  safe." 

But  Camilla  only  smiled.  She  looked  forward 
at  Mrs.  Cheyne's  intolerant  back,  and  there  was  a 
joyous  flash  in  her  eyes  like  the  one  he  remembered 
two  years  ago  when  she  led  the  chase  of  a  coyote, 
which  she  ran  down  and  roped  unaided.  She  leaned 
forward  gaily  and  patted  her  horse's  neck. 

107 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


"  We  understand  each  other,  don't  we,  Mackinaw?" 

And  then,  as  though  to  express  her  emancipation 
from  all  earthly  barriers,  she  gave  her  horse  his  head 
in  the  pasture  and  followed  a  party  which  had 
scorned  the  open  gate.  Mackinaw  took  the  three 
rails  like  a  bird  and  shook  his  head  viciously  when 
Camilla  restrained  him.  Cortland  followed  her, 
smiling,  and  in  a  moment  they  had  all  stopped  at 
the  foot  of  the  hill,  while  the  hounds  went  forward 
into  the  cover. 

Janney  had  planned  well.  They  waited  a  while, 
chatting  among  themselves,  and  then  suddenly  the 
hounds  gave  tongue.  At  the  farther  end  of  the  cover, 
taking  a  diagonal  course  across  an  old  cornfield  up 
the  hill,  the  old  fox  emerged,  while  the  hounds, 
getting  the  scent,  followed  hot-foot  after  him. 

"Tally-ho!"  was  the  cry  from  one  of  the  whips, 
and  it  echoed  again  and  again  the  length  of  the  field. 
In  a  second  they  were  off,  Curtis  Janney  in  the  lead, 
roaring  some  instructions  which  nobody  understood. 
Camilla,  overanxious,  cleared  the  brook  at  a  bound 
and  won  her  way  among  the  leaders.  Gretchen 
Janney  and  Mrs.  Cheyne,  their  horses  well  in  hand, 
were  a  little  to  the  left,  following  the  Master,  whose 
knowledge  of  the  lay  of  the  land  foresaw  that  the 
run  would  follow  the  ridge  which  farther  on  turned 
to  the  eastward.  Camilla  only  knew  that  she  must 
ride  straight,  and  went  forward  up  the  hill  toward 
the  line  of  bushes  around  which  the  last  hound  had 
disappeared.  Bent  thundered  after  her,  watching 
her  anxiously  as  she  took  the  fence  at  the  top  of 

108 


THE  BRUSH 


the  hill  —  a  tall  one  —  and  landed  safely  in  the 
stubble  beyond. 

"Pull  up  a  little,  Camilla ! "  he  shouted.  "You'll 
blow  him  if  you  don't.  This  may  last  all  morning. " 

"I  — I  can't!"  she  cried.  "He's  pulling  me. 
He  doesn't  want  to  stop,  and  neither  do  I." 

"It's  the  twenty  pounds  of  under  weight  —  but 
you'd  better  use  your  curb. " 

As  they  cleared  the  bushes  they  "viewed"  again 
from  a  distance  the  hounds  running  in  a  straight  line, 
skirting  a  pasture  at  the  edge  of  a  wood  half  a  mile 
away.  The  field  below  to  their  left  was  now  a  thin 
line  of  single  horsemen  or  groups  of  twos  and  threes. 
Behind  Bent  were  Billy  Haviland  and  the  Baroness. 
Down  the  hill  they  went,  more  carefully  this  time, 
then  up  again  over  rocky  ground  dotted  with  pitfalls 
of  ice  and  snow  which  made  the  going  hazardous. 
Janney's  crowd  below  on  the  level  meadows  was 
forging  ahead,  but  when  Camilla  reached  the  top  of 
the  next  hill  she  saw  that,  instead  of  surging  toward 
the  river,  the  hounds  were  far  away  to  the  right  in 
open  country  and  going  very  fast.  They  reached 
the  road  from  the  meadow  just  as  Curtis  Janney, 
closely  followed  by  Gretchen  and  Mrs.  Cheyne, 
Larry,  and  Jeff,  came  riding  into  the  open. 

"Have  you  Viewed'?" 

Cortland  Bent  pointed  with  his  crop,  and  they 
all  saw  the  pack  making  for  the  woods  and  the  trees 
which  lined  the  creek  in  the  hollow  beyond.  It 
was  a  wide  stretch  of  open  country  made  up  of  half 
a  dozen  fields  and  fences.  The  short,  sharp  cry 

109 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


of  the  hounds  as  they  sighted  the  fox  was  music 
to  Camilla,  but  the  roar  of  the  wind  in  her  ears  and 
the  thunder  of  the  horses'  hoofs  were  sweeter.  It 
was  a  race  for  the  creek.  The  Master,  on  his  big 
thoroughbred,  was  three  lengths  in  the  lead,  but 
Jeff,  Mrs.  Cheyne,  and  Camilla,  just  behind  him, 
were  taking  their  jumps  together. 

At  the  third  fence,  for  some  reason,  Mackinaw 
refused,  and,  scarcely  knowing  how  it  had  happened, 
Camilla  slid  forward  over  his  ears  to  the  ground. 
She  was  a  little  stunned,  but  managed  to  keep  her 
hold  on  the  reins,  and  before  Cortland  Bent  could 
dismount  she  was  on  her  feet  again,  her  cheeks 
a  little  pale,  but  in  nowise  injured. 

"Are  you  hurt,  Camilla?" 

"No.  Help  me  up  quickly,  Cort. "  She  had  seen 
Jeff  and  Mrs.  Cheyne  draw  rein  a  moment  on  the 
other  side  of  the  fence,  but,  when  she  rose,  ride  on 
together.  Jeff  shouted  something  to  her,  but  she 
could  not  hear  it. 

"I  didn't  give  him  his  head,"  Camilla  stammered. 
"I'll  know  better  now." 

"For  God's  sake,  be  careful,"  whispered  Bent. 

If  she  heard  him  she  gave  no  sign  of  it,  for,  with  her 
face  pale  and  her  lips  compressed,  she  made  a  wide 
turn,  and,  before  the  rest  of  the  field  came  up,  she 
had  put  Mackinaw  at  the  jump  again,  giving  him 
his  head  and  the  crop  on  his  flank  just  before  he 
rose  to  it.  The  frightened  animal  cleared  the  rails 
with  two  feet  to  spare  and  a  good  six  feet  on  the 
farther  side,  and,  when  Jeff  turned  at  the  bank  of 

110 


THE  BRUSH 


the  creek  to  look,  he  saw  Mackinaw  nobly  clearing 
the  last  fence  that  remained  between  them. 

Camilla,  her  color  coming  slowly  back,  kept  her 
eyes  fixed  on  the  smart  silk  hat  of  Mrs.  Cheyne. 
The  memory  of  Mrs.  Cheyne's  smile  infuriated  her. 
Her  manner  was  so  superior,  her  equipment  so 
immaculate,  her  seat  such  a  fine  pattern  of  English 
horsemanship.  The  run  was  to  be  long,  they  said. 
Perhaps  there  would  still  be  time  to  show  that  she 
could  ride  —  as  the  boys  in  the  West  rode,  for 
every  inch  —  for  every  pound. 

Through  the  ford  she  dashed,  with  Cortland  close 
at  her  heels,  the  water  deluging  them  both,  up  the 
bank  and  over  the  rise  of  the  hill,  toward  a  patch  of 
bushes  where  the  fox  doubled  and  went  straight 
with  the  wind  across  the  valley  for  the  hills.  The 
going  was  rougher  here  —  boulders,  stone  walls, 
and  ploughed  fields.  Camilla  cut  across  the  angle 
and  in  a  moment  was  riding  beside  her  husband  and 
Mrs.  Cheyne,  who  seemed  to  be  setting  the  pace. 

"Are  you  all  right?"  Jeff  asked.  But  she  only 
smiled  at  him  and  touched  Mackinaw  with  her 
heel.  She  was  riding  confidently  now,  sure  of 
herself  and  surer  of  her  horse.  They  understood 
each  other,  and  Mackinaw  responded  nobly,  for 
when  he  found  his  place  by  the  side  of  Rita  Cheyne's 
bay  mare  he  sensed  the  will  of  his  rider  that  here 
was  the  horse  that  he  must  outstay.  The  pace  was 
terrific,  and  once  or  twice  Camilla  felt  the  eyes 
of  the  other  woman  upon  her,  but  she  rode  joyously, 
grimly,  looking  neither  to  left  nor  right,  as  she 

111 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


realized  that  Mrs.  Cheyne's  mount  was  tiring  and 
that  Mackinaw  seemed  to  be  gaining  strength  at 
every  jump. 

The  old  Chelten  Fox  gained  immortality  that  day. 
Twice  the  foremost  hounds  were  snapping  at  his 
very  heels,  when,  from  some  hidden  source  of  energy, 
he  drew  another  store  and  ran  away  from  them, 
doubling  through  the  brush  and  throwing  them  off 
the  scent,  which  they  recovered  only  when  he  had 
put  a  safe  distance  between  them.  Camilla  had  lost 
her  hat,  her  hair  had  fallen  about  her  shoulders,  and 
a  thorn  had  gashed  her  cheek.  The  pace  was  telling 
on  Mackinaw,  whose  stride  was  not  so  long  or  his 
jumps  so  powerful,  but  Mrs.  Cheyne  still  rode  be 
side  her,  her  face  a  little  paler  than  before,  but  her 
seat  as  firm  —  her  hands  as  light  as  ever.  If  there 
were  any  other  riders  near  them,  both  women  were 
oblivious,  seeing  nothing  but  the  blur  of  the  flying 
turf  beneath  them,  hearing  nothing  but  the  sharp 
note  of  the  hounds  in  front,  which  told  that  the  chase 
was  nearly  ended. 

Before  them  was  a  lane  with  two  fences  of  four 
rails,  an  "in  and  out,"  with  a  low  "take  off"  from 
the  meadow.  Camilla  rose  in  her  stirrups  to  look 
and  saw  that  Mrs.  Cheyne  had  drawn  rein.  It  was 
a  jump  which  would  tax  the  mettle  of  fresher  ani 
mals.  With  a  smile  on  her  face  which  might  have 
been  a  counterfeit  of  the  one  Mrs.  Cheyne  had  worn 
earlier  in  the  morning,  Camilla  turned  in  her  saddle, 
catching  the  eye  of  her  companion,  and  pointed 
with  her  crop  straight  before  her  to  where  the  hounds 


THE  BRUSH 


had  "killed"  in  the  meadow  just  beyond,  then  set 
Mackinaw  for  the  highest  panel  she  could  find. 

"Come  on,  Mrs.  Cheyne!"  she  cried  hoarsely. 
"Come  on!" 

Mackinaw  breasted  the  fence  and  reached  the 
road  —  a  pause  of  a  second  until  Camilla's  spurs 
sank  into  his  flanks,  when,  mad  with  pain,  he  leaped 
forward  into  the  air,  just  clearing  the  other  fence 
and  the  ditch  that  lay  on  the  farther  side.  Camilla 
pulled  up  sharply  as  the  Huntsman  dismounted 
and  made  his  way  among  the  dogs.  Turning,  she 
saw  Mrs.  Cheyne's  horse  rise  awkwardly  from  the 
lane  and  go  crashing  through  the  fence,  breaking 
the  top  rail  and  landing  in  the  ditch.  Its  rider, 
thrown  forward  out  of  the  saddle,  landed  heavily 
and  then  rolled  to  one  side  and  lay  quiet. 

With  a  quick  cry  of  dismay,  Camilla  dismounted, 
conscience-stricken,  and  ran  to  her  fallen  foe,  just 
as  the  others  rode  up  and  caught  the  frightened 
horse. 

"Dear  Mrs.  Cheyne,"  she  heard  herself  saying, 
"I'm  so  sorry.  Are  you  really  badly  hurt?"  But 
the  only  reply  she  got  was  a  feeble  shake  of  the 
head.  Curtis  Janney  brought  out  a  brandy  flask,  and, 
after  a  sip  or  two,  Mrs.  Cheyne  revived  and  looked 
about  her. 

"I'm  all  here,  I  think,"  she  said.  "That  was  a 
bad  cropper  —  in  my  own  barnyard,  too  —  the 
Brush  must  be  yours,  Mrs.  Wray.  Give  me  a 
cigarette,  somebody." 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE    SHADOW 

MRS.  CHEYNE'S  farmhands  and  stablemen 
came  running  and  took  the  horses  of  those 
who  dismounted;  and  Mrs.  Cheyne,  after 
examining  herself  to  see  that  no  bones  were  broken, 
led  the  way,  stiffly  but  without  assistance,  to  the 
house.  Camilla,  still  a  little  bewildered,  saw 
Mackinaw  led  off  to  the  stable  for  a  rub-down. 
The  Master  of  the  Hounds  was  the  first  to  con 
gratulate  her. 

"Here  is  your  Brush,  Mrs.  Wray.  You've  filled 
every  woman's  heart  with  envy,  To  be  in  at  the 
death  of  the  old  Chelten  Fox  is  an  achievement. 
You  had  a  fall.  Are  you  injured?" 

"I  believe  not,"  she  said.  "Mackinaw  is  a 
darling.  I  hope  he's  sound?"  she  inquired  anx 
iously. 

"As  a  bell,"  he  said  generously.  "He's  got 
the  heart  of  an  ox.  You  know"  —  he  laughed  and 
whispered  —  "I  bought  him  from  Mrs.  Cheyne, 
and  to-day  you've  vindicated  me." 

Others  came  up,  men  of  the  Hunt  Club,  and  asked 
to  be  presented,  and  Camilla,  enjoying  her  triumph, 
followed  the  party  to  the  house. 

Mrs.  Cheyne's  house  differed  in  character  from 

114 


«'Turning,   she    saw    Mrs.    Cheyne's    horse  go   crashing   through 
the    fence." 


THE  SHADOW 


that  of  the  Janneys.  It  was  snugly  built  in  a  pocket 
of  the  hills,  facing  to  the  south.  The  original  build 
ing,  square  and  massive,  dated  from  the  early 
eighteenth  century,  but  two  symmetrical  wings  at 
the  sides  had  greatly  increased  its  original  size. 
Large  pillars  and  a  portico  gave  the  graceful  lines 
which  the  addition  demanded.  The  wide  stair 
hall  which  ran  from  front  to  back  had  not  been 
altered,  and  the  furniture  and  hangings  rigidly 
preserved  the  ancient  atmosphere. 

The  surprised  butler  and  his  assistant  hurriedly 
prepared  hot  Scotches  and  toddy,  and  the  halls  and 
large  rooms  on  the  lower  floor  were  soon  filled  with 
the  swaggering  company  —  all  talking  at  once, 
each  with  his  tale  of  luck  or  misfortune. 

It  was  not  until  Camilla  was  gratefully  enthroned 
in  a  big  chair  by  the  open  fireplace  that  Cortland 
Bent  found  a  chance  to  speak  to  her. 

"What  possessed  you,  Camilla?  You  rode  like 
a  demon.  You've  dragged  poor  Rita's  pride  in  the 
mire.  Riding  is  her  long  suit.  She's  not  used  to 
yielding  her  laurels  as  she  did  to-day.  I  fancy  she's 
not  at  all  happy  about  it." 

"Why?"  asked  Camilla,  wonderingly. 

"You  don't  know  Rita  as  I  do.  She  runs  things 
out  here  pretty  much  in  her  own  way."  He  chuckled 
quietly.  "Good  Lord,  but  you  did  put  it  over  her." 

"I'm  sorry  if  she  feels  badly  about  it,"  she  put 
in  mendaciously. 

"There's  nothing  to  be  sorry  about.  You  won 
out  against  odds  on  a  horse  she'd  thrown  into  the 

115 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


discard.  That  doesn't  make  her  feel  any  sweeter. 
She's  a  queer  one.  There's  no  telling  how  she'll 
take  things.  But  she  doesn't  like  being  the  under 
dog,  and  she  won't  forget  this  soon." 

"Neither  will  I,"  said  Camilla,  smiling  to  herself. 
"She  scored  one  on  me  yesterday,  but  I  fancy  our 
accounts  are  about  even." 

"Yes,  they  are.  I  suppose  there's  no  use  warning 
you." 

"No,  there  isn't,  Cort.  I  fancy  I'll  be  able  to 
look  out  for  myself." 

He  examined  her  keenly  and  realized  that  she 
was  looking  at  Jeff,  who  stood  with  some  men  at 
the  end  of  the  room  toasting  their  hostess.  He 
seemed  to  have  forgotten  Camilla's  existence. 
In  the  field  before  they  came  into  the  house  Jeff 
had  spoken  to  her,  and  when  Janney  had  given 
Camilla  the  Brush,  Jeff  had  congratulated  her 
noisily  and  with  the  heartiness  and  enthusiasm  he 
always  showed  over  things  which  reflected  credit 
on  himself.  In  their  private  life  Jeff  still  stood  a 
little  in  awe  of  Camilla.  He  realized  that  his  many 
deficiencies  put  him  at  a  disadvantage  with  a  woman 
of  her  stamp,  and,  no  matter  what  he  felt,  he  had 
never  asked  more  of  her  in  the  way  of  companion 
ship  than  she  had  been  willing  to  give  him  ungrudg 
ingly;  he  was  tolerant  of  her  literary  moods,  her 
music,  her  love  of  pictures,  and  the  many  things  he 
could  not  understand.  She  was  the  only  cultured 
woman  he  had  ever  known,  and  his  marriage  had 
done  little  to  change  his  way  of  thinking  of  her. 

116 


THE  SHADOW 


Camilla  had  not  meant  to  abide  forever  in  the  shrine 
in  which  Jeff  had  enthroned  her. 

In  the  earlier  days  of  their  married  life  she  had 
been  willing  to  sit  enshrined  because  it  had  been 
the  easiest  way  to  conceal  the  actual  state  of  her 
own  mind;  because  it  had  come  to  be  a  habit  with 
her  —  and  with  him  to  behold  her  there.  Their 
pilgrimage  to  New  York  had  made  a  difference. 
It  was  not  easy  for  Camilla  to  define  it  just  yet. 
He  was  a  little  easier  in  his  ways  with  her,  regarded 
her  inaccessibility  a  little  less  seriously,  and  ques 
tioned  by  his  demeanor  rather  than  by  any  spoken 
words  matters  which  had  long  been  taken  for 
granted  by  them  both.  He  had  made  no  overt 
declaration  of  independence  and,  in  his  way,  gave 
her  opinions  the  same  respect  he  had  always  given 
them.  The  difference,  if  anything,  had  been  in 
the  different  way  in  which  they  viewed  from  the 
very  same  angle  the  great  world  of  affairs.  Men, 
as  Jeff  had  always  known,  were  much  the  same 
all  the  world  over,  but,  curiously  enough,  he  had 
never  seen  fit  to  apply  any  rule  to  its  women.  It  was 
flattery,  indeed,  for  him  to  have  believed  for  so 
long  that,  because  Camilla  was  cultured,  all  cultured 
women  must  be  like  Camilla.  His  wife  realized 
that  Jeff's  discovery  of  Mrs.  Cheyne  was  requir 
ing  a  readjustment  of  all  his  early  ideas.  And  so, 
while  she  spoke  lightly  of  Mrs.  Cheyne  to  Cortland 
Bent,  in  her  heart  she  was  aware  that  if  the  lady 
took  it  into  her  pretty  head  to  use  Jeff  as  a  weapon 
she  might  herself  be  put  upon  the  defensive. 

117 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


It  seemed  as  though  Cortland  had  an  intuition 
of  what  was  passing  in  her  mind. 

"If  there's  any  way  in  which  I  can  be  of  service," 
he  ventured. 

"Oh,  yes,  Cort,"  she  laughed.  "I'll  call  on  you. 
The  only  thing  I  ask  of  you  now  is  —  not  to  fall  in 
love  with  Mrs.  Cheyne." 

"Rita?  I'd  as  soon  think  of  falling  in  love  with 
a  kaleidoscope.  Besides " 

But  she  laid  restraining  fingers  on  his  arm. 

"Tell  me  about  Gretchen,"  she  interrupted 
quickly. 

"There's  nothing  to  tell,  except,"  he  said  with  a 
sigh,  "that  she's  quite  gone  on  Larry." 

"You  can't  mean  it?" 

"Really  —  she  told  me  so." 

Camilla  glanced  toward  the  hall  where  the  two 
young  people  were  sitting  in  the  big  haircloth  sofa 
engaged  in  a  harmless  investigation  of  the  science 
of  palmistry. 

Camilla  laughed.  "It  really  looks  so,  doesn't  it? 
I  am  sorry,  though.  I  had  begun  to  look  on  Miss 
Janney  as  one  of  the  solutions  of  our  difficulty." 

"There  isn't  any  solution  of  it  —  not  that  way  — 
you  must  take  my  word  for  it.  Gretchen  and  I 
understand  each  other  perfectly.  If  I  can  do  any 
thing  to  help  Lawrence  Berkely  with  her,  I'll  do  it." 

"Oh,  you're  quite  hopeless,  Cort,"  she  sighed, 
"and  I  have  no  patience  with  Larry.  I  can't  see 
why  he  doesn't  mind  his  own  business." 

Bent  glanced  at  the  young  couple  in  the  hall. 

118 


THE  SHADOW 


"He  seems  to  me  to  be  doing  that  tolerably  well." 
He  leaned  forward  so  that  his  tone,  though  lowered, 
could  be  heard  distinctly. 

"There  is  another  solution.  Perhaps  you  had 
not  thought  of  it."  She  turned  her  head  quickly 
and  searched  his  face  for  a  meaning.  For  reply 
he  coolly  turned  his  gaze  in  the  direction  of  Jeff 
and  Mrs.  Cheyne,  who  had  withdrawn  into  an  em 
brasure  of  one  of  the  windows. 

"A  solution "  she  stammered. 

"Yes,  a  way  out  —  for  both  of  us." 

"You  mean  Jeff  —  and  Mrs.  Cheyne?"  she 
whispered." 

"I  do." 

The  poison  of  his  suggestion  flowed  slowly  through 
her  mind,  like  a  drug  which  stimulates  and  stupefies 
at  the  same  time. 

"You  mean  that  I  should  allow  Jeff  —  that  I 
should  connive  in  his "  She  stopped,  horror- 
stricken.  "Oh,  Cort,  that  was  unworthy  of  you," 
she  whispered. 

"I  mean  it.  They're  well  met  —  those  two," 
he  finished  viciously. 

Camilla  held  up  her  fingers  pleadingly.  "Don't 
speak.  I  forbid  you."  And,  rising,  she  took  up 
her  gloves  and  crop  from  the  table.  "Besides," 
she  said  more  lightly,  "I  have  a  suspicion  that  you 
are  trying  to  stir  up  a  tempest  in  a  teapot." 

"Do  you  mean  you  haven't  noticed?"  he  insisted. 
"At  my  father's?  At  the  Warringtons'?  Last 
night  at  the  Janneys'?" 

119 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


"No,"  she  replied  carelessly,  "I  hadn't  noticed." 

Curtis  Janney,  who  had  been  moving  fussily 
from  one  group  to  another,  came  forward  as  he  saw 
Camilla  rise. 

"I  was  hoping  we  might  still  get  another  short 
run,  but  I  suppose  you're  too  tired,  Mrs.  Wray?" 

"A  little  —  but  don't  let  me  interfere.  I  think 
I  can  find  my  way  back." 

He  looked  at  his  watch.  "Hello!  It's  time  we 
were  off  anyway.  The  other  guests  will  be  eating 
all  our  breakfast.  Come,  Cort,  Gretchen,  Mrs. 
Cheyne  —  you  know  you're  my  guest  still,"  strolling 
from  group  to  group  and  ruthlessly  breaking  up  the 
tete-a-tetes  so  successfully  that  Rita  Cheyne  rebelled. 

"You're  a  very  disagreeable  person,  Mr.  Janney 
—  Ivy  wild  resents  it.  You're  trying  to  form  the 
hospitality  of  the  county  into  one  of  those  horrid 
trusts.  Every  time  accident  throws  the  hunt  my 
way  you  insist  on  dragging  it  off  to  Braebank.  It 
isn't  fair.  Of  course,  if  you  insist " 

And  then,  crossing  to  Camilla,  "Dear  Mrs.  Wray, 
I'm  borrowing  your  husband  for  a  while.  I  feel 
a  little  tired,  so  he  promised  to  lunch  with  me  here 
and  go  on  to  Braebank  later.  You  don't  mind,  do 
you?" 

"Not  in  the  least,  my  dear  Mrs.  Cheyne.  I'm 
so  sorry  you  feel  badly."  And  then  to  her  husband, 
"Remember,  Jeff,  Mr.  Janney  expects  you  later." 
Each  spoke  effusively,  the  tips  of  their  fingers  just 
touching.  Then  Mrs.  Cheyne  followed  her  visitors 
to  the  door. 

120 


THE  SHADOW 


Outside  a  coach-horn  was  blowing,  and,  as  they 
emerged  upon  the  porch  the  Janney  brake  arrived, 
tooled  by  the  coachman  and  bearing  aloft  Mrs. 
Rumsen,  General  Bent,  and  Gladys,  who  had  arrived 
from  town  on  the  morning  train.  But  they  would 
not  get  down,  and  the  cavalcade  soon  wound  its 
way  along  the  drive,  leaving  Jeff  and  Mrs.  Cheyne 
waving  them  a  good-by  from  the  steps. 

Camilla  took  the  road  thoughtfully.  It  was  the 
first  time  in  their  brief  social  career  that  Jeff  had 
not  consulted  her  before  he  made  his  own  plans. 
She  did  not  blame  him  altogether,  for  she  knew  that 
Jeff's  inexperience  made  him  singularly  vulnerable 
to  the  arts  of  a  woman  of  the  type  of  Mrs.  Cheyne, 
who,  for  want  of  any  better  occupation  in  life,  had 
come  to  consider  all  men  her  lawful  prey.  Camilla 
knew  that  mild  flirtations  were  the  rule  rather  than 
the  exception  in  this  gay  world  where  idle  people 
caught  at  anything  which  put  to  flight  the  insistent 
demon  of  weariness  and  boredom.  And  she  dis 
covered  that  it  was  a  part  of  the  diversion  of  the 
younger  married  couples  to  loan  husbands  and 
wives  to  satisfy  the  light  fancy  of  the  hour. 
All  this  was  a  part  of  the  fabric  in  which 
she  and  Jeff  were  living  and  endangered  society 
only  when  the  women  were  weak  and  the  men 
vicious.  But  Jeff  somehow  didn't  seem  to  fit 
into  the  picture.  His  personality  she  had  learned 
to  associate  with  significant  achievements.  His 
faults,  as  well  as  his  virtues,  were  big,  and  he  had 
a  habit  of  scorning  lesser  sine.  The  pleasure  of  a 
d  121 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


mild  flirtation  such  as  his  brothers  of  the  city  might 
indulge  in  for  the  mere  delight  of  the  society  of  a 
woman  would  offer  nothing  to  Jeff,  who  was  not  in 
the  habit  of  doing  anything  mildly  or  by  halves. 
Camilla  knew  him  better  than  Mrs.  Cheyne 
did. 

Of  course,  no  one  thought  anything  of  his  new 
interest  in  Mrs.  Cheyne.  All  of  the  younger  men 
were  interested  in  Mrs.  Cheyne  at  one  time  or 
another,  and  it  was  doubtful  if  people  had  even 
noticed  his  attentions.  Cortland  had,  but  there 
was  a  reason  for  that.  Anything  that  could  dis 
credit  Jeff  in  her  eyes  was  meat  and  drink  to  him. 
But  it  was  cruel  of  Cortland  to  take  advantage 
of  her  isolation,  but  how  could  she  cut  herself  off 
from  Cort,  when  her  husband,  by  the  nature  of  the 
situation,  had  thrown  her  so  completely  on  his 
mercies?  It  seemed  as  though  all  the  world  was 
conspiring  to  throw  her  with  the  one  man  whose 
image  she  had  promised  her  conscience  she  would 
wipe  from  her  heart.  He  rode  beside  her  now 
remorselessly,  proving  by  his  silence  more  eloquently 
the  measure  of  his  appreciation  of  the  situation. 
She  felt  that  he,  too,  was  entering  the  Valley  of 
Indecision,  with  the  surer  step  of  a  dawning  Hope, 
while  she  faltered  on  the  brink  of  the  Slough  of 
Despond. 

They  had  fallen  well  behind  the  others,  and  fol 
lowed  a  quiet  lane  bordered  by  a  row  of  birch  trees 
which  still  clung  tenaciously  to  the  remnants  of 
their  autumn  finery.  At  one  side  gushed  a  stream, 


THE  SHADOW 


fed  by  the  early  snows,  which  sang  musically  of 
the  secrets  of  earth  and  sky.  There  was  no  inde 
cision  here.  Every  twig,  every  painted  stone,  the 
sky  and  breeze,  spoke  a  message  of  blithe  optimism. 
All  was  right  with  the  world,  and  if  doubt  crept 
into  the  hearts  of  men  it  was  because  they  were 
deaf  to  the  messages  of  Nature.  The  spell  of  its 
beauty  fell  on  Camilla,  too,  and  she  found  herself 
smiling  up  at  Cortland  Bent.  There  were  many 
things  to  be  thankful  for. 

"Are  you  happy?"  he  asked. 

"One  can't  be  anything  else  on  a  day  like  this." 

"You  don't  care  then?" 

"For  what?  Oh,  yes.  I  have  a  natural  interest 
in  the  welfare  of  my  husband.  But  I  think  Mrs. 
Cheyne  is  wasting  her  time." 

"I  think  perhaps  you  underrate  her,"  he  muttered. 

"I'd  rather  underrate  Mrs.  Cheyne  than  under 
rate  myself,"  proudly. 

He  was  silent  for  a  moment,  flicking  at  the  weeds 
with  his  riding-crop. 

"Mrs.  Cheyne  and  you  have  nothing  in  common, 
Camilla,"  he  said.  "I'm  afraid  it  isn't  in  you  to 
understand  this  crowd.  The  set  in  which  she  and 
I  were  brought  up  is  a  little  world  in  itself.  The 
things  which  happen  outside  of  it  are  none  of  its 
concern.  It  doesn't  care.  It  has  its  own  rules 
and  its  own  code  of  decency  to  which  it  makes  its 
members  subscribe.  It  is  New  York  in  miniature, 
the  essence,  the  cream  of  its  vices,  its  virtues,  and 
its  follies.  It  lives  like  that  poison-ivy  along  the 

123 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


fence,  stretching  out  its  tendrils  luxuriously  in  the 
direction  of  the  sun,  moving  along  the  line  of  least 
resistance.  It  does  not  care  what  newer  growth  it 
stunts,  what  blossom  learns  to  grow  beneath  its 
shade,  to  fade  and  droop,  perhaps  to  wither  for  lack 
of  air  and  sunlight " 

"And  yet  —  there's  Gretchen,"  she  said,  "and 
you." 

He  smiled  almost  gaily.  "Yes,  there  are  many 
Gretchens,  thank  God.  Girls  with  the  clean,  sound 
vision  of  their  sturdy  forbears,  whose  mothers  were 
young  when  the  city  still  felt  the  impress  of  its  early 
austerities." 

"And  you?"  she  repeated. 

His  brow  darkened  and  he  looked  straight  before 
him. 

"What  I  am  doesn't  matter.  I  was  born  and  bred 
in  this  atmosphere.  Isn't  that  enough?  " 

"It's  enough  that  you  survived  —  that  you,  too, 
have  a  clean  vision." 

"No,  that  is  not  true,"  he  said  sharply.  "I 
can't  see  clearly  —  I'm  not  sure  that  I  want  to  see 
clearly  —  not  now." 

"I  won't  believe  that,  Cort.  Back  there  at  her 
house  you  said  something  that  was  unworthy  of  you, 
that  showed  me  another  side  of  your  nature,  the 
dark  side,  like  the  shadowy  places  under  the  ivy. 
I  want  you  to  forget  that  you  ever  said  them  — 
that  you  ever  thought  them  even." 

"I  can't,"  he  muttered  savagely.  "I  want  some 
one  to  come  between  you  —  to  make  him  suffer 

124 


THE  SHADOW 


what  I  am  suffering  —  to  place  a  distance  between 
you  which  nothing  can  ever  repair." 

"Some  one  has  already  come  between  us,"  she 
said,  gently.  "The  one  I  have  in  mind  is  the  Cort 
Bent  of  Mesa  City,  who  used  to  help  me  gather 
columbines;  who  rode  with  me  far  up  the  trail  to 
get  the  last  ray  of  the  sunset  when  the  valley  below 
was  already  asleep  in  the  shadow;  who  shouted  my 
name  in  the  gorge  because  he  said  it  was  sweet  to 
hear  the  mountains  send  back  its  echoes  all  silvered 
over  with  the  mystery  of  the  Infinite;  who  told  me 
of  palaces  and  gardens  in  lands  which  I  had  never 
seen,  and  of  the  talented  men  and  women  who  had 
lived  in  them;  who  sang  to  me  in  the  moonlight  and 
taught  me  to  dream " 

"Don't,  Camilla " 

"That  was  a  boy  I  remember,  who  lived  years 
and  years  ago  when  I  was  rich  —  rich  in  innocent 
visions  which  he  did  nothing  to  destroy.  It  was  he 
who  gave  me  an  idea  that  there  were  men  who  dif 
fered  from  those  I  had  known  before  —  men  in 
whose  hearts  was  tenderness  and  in  whose  minds 
one  might  find  a  mirror  for  one's  harmless  aspira 
tions  toward  a  life  that  wasn't  all  material  and 
commonplace.  He  was  my  knight,  that  boy, 
thoughtful,  considerate,  and  gentle.  He  was  foolish 
sometimes,  but  I  loved  him  because  his  ideals  had 
not  been  destroyed." 

"I  lied  to  you.     Life  is  a  cinder." 

She  shook  her  head.  "No,  you  did  not  lie  to 
me  —  not  then.  Later  you  did  when  you  asked  me 

125 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


to  come  to  New  York.  Oh,  I  know.  I  can  see  more 
clearly  now.  Suppose  that  even  now  I  chose  what 
you  call  your  solution  of  the  tangle  we've  made  of 
things.  You'd  like  to  see  Jeff  desert  me  for  Rita 
Cheyne  so  that  you  could  have  your  own  way  with 


me  now." 


"Camilla!  I  was  mad  then.  I  thought  you 
understood.  Gretchen  and  I " 

"I  understand  many  things  better  than  I  did," 
she  interrupted.  "You  were  no  more  mad  then 
than  you  are  now.  I  think  I  have  always  been 
willing  to  forgive  you  for  that.  I  wanted  to  for 
give  you  because  I  thought  perhaps  you  didn't 
know  what  you  were  saying.  But  you  make  it 
harder  for  me  now.  The  boy  I  knew  in  the  West  is 
dead,  Cortland.  In  his  place  rides  a  man  I  do  not 
know,  a  man  with  a  shadow  in  his  eyes,  a  man  of 
the  gay  world,  which  moves  along  the  line  of  least 
resistance,  with  little  room  in  his  heart  for  the 
troubles  of  the  woman  he  once  offered  to  protect 
with  his  life." 

"I  would  still  protect  you  —  that  is  what  I  am 
offering." 

"How?  By  making  me  a  woman  like  Rita 
Cheyne,  who  changes  her  husbands  as  though  they 
were  fashions  in  parasols.  You  offer  me  protection 
from  Jeff.  I  refuse  it."  And  then  she  added  a 
little  haughtily,  "I'm  not  sure  that  I  need  any 
protection." 

He  glowered  toward  her,  searching  her  face 
sullenly. 

126 


THE  SHADOW 


"You  love  him?"  he  muttered. 

She  smiled  a  little  proudly.  "I  can't  love  you 
both.  Jeff  is  my  husband." 

"You  love  him?"  he  repeated.     "Answer  me!" 

"Not  when  you  take  that  tone.  I'll  answer  you 
nothing.  Come,  we  had  better  ride  forward." 
And,  before  he  could  restrain  her,  she  had  urged 
her  horse  into  a  canter. 

"Camilla!"  he  called. 

But  before  he  could  reach  her  she  had  joined  the 
others,  outside  the  gates  of  Braebank. 


CHAPTER  X 

TRITON  OF   THE   MINNOWS 

MR.  JANNEY'S  breakfast  guests  had  gone, 
and,  having    seen   the  last  of  the  country 
wagons  depart,  he  went  into  the  office  next 
to   the  smoking  room,  where   Cornelius   Bent   sat 
awaiting    him.     Curtis    Janney    brought    a    sheaf 
of     telegrams     and     letters     which     he     laid     on 
the   desk.     Then    he    opened    a   humidor,    offered 
his    guest     a  cigar,    took    one    himself,    and    sat 
down. 

"Well,  what  did  you  hear?"  asked  General  Bent. 
Janney  took  a  puff  or  two  at  his  cigar,  then  frowned 
at  the  papers  on  the  table. 

"A  great  deal,"  he  muttered,  "both  bad  and 
good.  I  have  here  reports  for  the  whole  week  from 
our  men  in  Denver,  Pueblo,  Kinney,  and  Saguache. 
The  pressure  from  Abington  and  the  Chicago  and 
Utah  has  finally  brought  Noakes  into  line.  It  was 
something  of  a  job,  for  he's  tied  up  in  one  of  Wray's 
development  companies,  and  it  has  cost  some 
money.  Abington  had  to  give  him  a  big  bonus  for 
the  stock  in  the  Denver  and  Western.  Collins  and 
Hardy  came  around  all  right,  and  it  only  remains 
to  put  the  screws  on  to  make  Wray  show  his 
hand." 

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TRITON  OF  THE  MINNOWS 

"Have  you  decided  on  that?"  asked  the 
General. 

"No,  I  haven't." 

Curtis  Janney  took  up  a  letter  which  he  had 
separated  from  the  others. 

"You  remember  we  thought  his  planning  this  new 
line  to  Pueblo  was  financial  suicide  and  that,  ii  we 
gave  Wray  enough  rope,  he'd  hang  himself.  We 
didn't  even  see  the  use  of  throwing  the  usual  im 
pediments  in  the  way." 

Bent  nodded. 

"Well,  they're  building  it. " 

"It's  only  a  bluff." 

"I'm  not  so  sure.  My  last  reports  show  that 
the  money  is  in  the  treasury  —  some  of  it  is  Wray's, 
but  most  of  it  has  come  from  Utah,  California, 
and  Washington  even.  The  Denver  and  California 
is  backing  the  whole  project,  and  tent  towns  are 
springing  up  along  the  line  of  the  survey.  Those 
people  out  there  believe  in  Wray  and  are  following 
him  like  sheep." 

"They  wouldn't  follow  him  long  if  we  found  a 
way  to  stop  him,"  said  the  General  grimly.  "I've 
seen  those  stampedes  before,  but  they  always  come 
to  an  end.  What  does  Lamson  report?" 

"The  Denver  and  California  seems  set  on  this 
thing  —  the  more  so  as  it  promises  to  be  a  success 
without  much  help  from  them." 

General  Bent  got  up  and  paced  the  floor  with 
quick,  nervous  strides. 

"Why,  Curtis,"  he  said,  "you  seem  to  see  un- 
129 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


usual  trouble  in  the  way.  The  case  presents  no 
greater  difficulties  than  the  Seemuller  plant  did, 
or  the  Myers  and  Ott,  but  we  got  them  both  in 
the  end." 

"There  is  a  difference." 

"Where?" 

"The  man  himself.  He'll  fight  to  the  last  ditch. 
That  jaw  wasn't  given  him  altogether  as  an  orna 
ment.  I'm  sorry  we  can't  find  his  weak  point. 
A  man  who  looks  as  far  ahead  as  he  does  is  a  good 
one  to  tie  to." 

"But  he  may  not  want  any  strings  on  him.  The 
other  night  at  dinner  at  my  house  he  was  boasting 
of  his  independence.  He  didn't  know  how  hot  it 
made  me." 

"Yes,  he  did.  That's  why  he  did  it.  He  said 
the  same  thing  here  yesterday.  But  I  wasn't  de 
ceived.  It  was  all  a  part  of  his  game.  I  think 
in  a  game  of  bluff  he  can  make  old  gamesters  like 
you  and  me  sit  up  and  do  some  guessing."  Janney 
knocked  the  ash  from  his  cigar  and  laughed. 

"Cornelius,  our  fine  scheme  hasn't  worked  out  — 
not  so  far.  When  Wray  first  came  in  the  office, 
you  sized  him  up  as  a  social  climber.  But,  if  you 
think  we  are  going  to  bewilder  him  by  our  clubs, 
the  opera,  and  social  connections,  you're  reckoning 
without  your  host." 

General  Bent  smiled  tolerantly. 

"He  assimilates  surprisingly  well,"  he  said  with 
a  reflective  nod.  "For  all  his  Western  manner, 
lie  never  gives  the  impression  of  being  ill-at-ease. 

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TRITON  OF  THE  MINNOWS 

I'll  say  that  for  him.  Why,  do  you  know,  I  strolled 
in  on  Caroline  the  other  afternoon  on  my  way  up 
town  and  found  him  teaching  her  how  to  play 
pinochle." 

"Mrs.  Rumsen?" 

"Yes.  She'll  be  making  him  the  rage  before 
the  winter  is  out.  But  he  takes  it  all  as  a  matter 
of  course.  Indeed,  I  think  he  fancies  himself  our 
equal  in  any  matter."  He  paused  and  then  rose. 
"But  he  must  prove  that.  The  Amalgamated 
must  own  that  smelter." 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Janney,  following  him  with  his 
eyes.  "It  will,  of  course.  We  can't  have  him 
underbidding  us.  It's  lucky  he  hasn't  tried  it  yet. 
But  that's  the  danger  from  a  man  with  both  ability 
and  ambition.  And  we  can't  run  the  risk  of  letting 
him  get  too  far." 

There  was  a  silence  of  some  moments,  which  Cor 
nelius  Bent  improved  by  running  over  the  corre 
spondence.  When  he  had  finished  he  tossed  the 
letters  abruptly  on  the  table,  and  walked  to  the 
window.  "Poor  Cort,"  he  muttered,  "he  lost 
us  the  whole  thing.  I  wonder  what's  the  matter 
with  that  boy.  He  always  seems  to  miss  it  some 
how.  I  can  never  make  a  business  man  of  him  — 
like  you  or  myself  —  or  like  Jeff  Wray." 

"He's  cost  us  a  pretty  penny,"  growled  Janney. 

The  General  still  stood  by  the  window,  his  chin 
deep  in  his  chest,  his  long  fingers  twitching  behind 
his  back. 

"Jeff  Wray  must  pay  for  that,  Curtis.  If  we 
131 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


can't  beat  him  in  one  way  we  must  choose  another. 
Jeff  Wray  stole  the  'Lone  Tree.'  He  trespassed  on 
our  property  in  the  dead  of  the  night,  did  violence 
to  one  of  our  employes,  and  bluffed  Cort  into 
signing  that  lease.  If  there  was  any  law  in  the 
state  of  Colorado,  he'd  be  serving  his  term  at  Canon 
City.  But  I'll  get  him  yet!  I  will,  by  God!  If 
he'd  come  in  this  office  now  and  hold  you  up  for  the 
money  in  your  safe  he'd  be  a  thief.  What  is  the 
difference?" 

"Just  this:  He  was  successful,  and  he  left  no 
loose  ends  behind  him." 

"I've  thought  at  times,  Janney,  that  you  lack 
some  interest  in  this  fight." 

"Why?  Because  I  take  the  precaution  to  get 
all  the  information  I  can — and  because  my  infor 
mation  turns  out  to  be  unfavorable  to  our  plans? 
You  want  to  crush  Wray.  Very  well.  I  have  no 
objections.  Crush  him  if  you  can.  But  it  would 
hardly  do  to  let  him  crush  us." 

Bent  turned  and  examined  his  host  curiously. 
Then  he  laughed.  It  wasn't  pretty  laughter,  and  it 
cracked  dryly,  like  the  sound  of  a  creaking  door. 

"Upon  my  word,  Curtis,  you  amaze  me,"  he  said. 

"Very  well,"  put  in  Janney  coolly.  "But  think 
it  over.  Don't  be  hasty.  If  he  puts  that  road 
through  and  starts  the  game  of  underbidding  on  the 
raw  product,  we'll  be  in  for  a  long  fight  —  and 
an  expensive  one.  I  don't  think  the  Company 
wants  that  now.  Mclntyre  doesn't,  I  know.  And 
Warrington,  as  usual,  is  for  temporizing." 

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TRITON  OF  THE  MINNOWS 

"Temporizing?"  Cornelius  Bent's  jaws  snapped 
viciously.  "This  is  not  a  case  where  personal 
preferences  can  be  considered.  There's  a  great 
principle  involved.  Are  we  going  to  let  an  upstart 
like  Jeff  Wray  —  a  petty  real  estate  operator  from 
an  obscure  Western  town — come  into  our  field  with 
a  few  stolen  millions  and  destroy  the  plans  of  an 
organized  business  which  controls  the  output  of 
practically  all  the  great  gold-producing  states  — 
a  company  whose  sound  methods  have  brought 
order  out  of  chaos,  have  given  employment  to  an 
army  of  people ;  whose  patents  have  simplified  pro 
cesses,  reduced  the  cost  of  production,  and  kept  the 
price  of  the  metal  where  it  is  satisfactory  both  to 
the  mines  and  the  market?  Are  we  going  to  see  all 
this  jeopardized  by  a  wild-catter,  a  tin-horn  gambler, 
a  fellow  with  neither  decency  nor  moral  principle? 
Temporize  like  Warrington  if  you  like,  but  the 
Board  of  the  Amalgamated  must  make  a  fight  for 
the  Wray  smelter  —  or  accept  my  resignation." 

Bent  stalked  the  floor  swiftly,  biting  off  the  ends 
of  his  sentences  as  though  they  were  parts  of  Wray's 
anatomy,  clenching  his  fingers  as  he  might  have 
done  had  they  encircled  Wray's  neck.  Curtis 
Janney  followed  him  with  his  gaze,  his  brows 
tangled  and  his  lips  compressed,  aware  of  the  serious 
ness  of  the  situation.  The  resignation  of  Cornelius 
Bent  from  the  Board  of  the  Amalgamated  was  a 
contingency  not  for  a  moment  to  be  considered. 

"That,  of  course,  is  impossible,"  he  said.  "We're 
all  behind  you  to  a  dollar  if  you  take  that  stand.  But 

133 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


wouldn't  it  be  wise  to  have  Wray  in  and  talk  to 
him?  We  might  learn  something  that's  not  on  the 
cards." 

"Oh,  yes,  if  you  like,"  growled  the  General, 
"but  you're  wasting  time.  I've  got  my  idea  of 
what  that  property  is  worth.  I'll  make  him  the 
offer.  If  he  refuses"  —  and  his  lower  jaw 
worked  forward  —  "it  will  be  war  —  to  the  last 
ditch." 

Curtis  Janney  pressed  a  bell,  and  a  servant 
appeared. 

"Has  Mr.  Wray  returned?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  the  man. 

"Tell  him  General  Bent  would  like  to  see  him 
here." 

The  man  departed,  and  General  Bent  with  an 
effort  relaxed  the  muscles  of  his  face  and  sat.  Both 
gentlemen  looked  up  quickly  when  the  servant 
returned  a  few  moments  later. 

"I  delivered  your  message,  sir,"  he  said.  "Mr. 
Wray  asked  me  to  say  that  he  is  engaged  at  the 
present  moment  and  will  join  you  later." 

General  Bent's  brows  drew  together  angrily,  but 
Janney  inquired  suavely,  "Where  did  you  find  him, 
Carey?" 

"In  the  conservatory,  sir,  with  Mrs.  Cheyne." 

Janney  smiled,  but  suppressed  Bent's  sudden 
exclamation  with  a  wave  of  the  hand. 

"You  may  bring  in  the  whisky,  then  tell  him 
that  General  Bent  and  I  will  await  his  convenience." 

"Yes,  sir.     Thank  you,  sir." 
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TRITON  OF  THE  MINNOWS 

"Confound  his  impudence!"  muttered  the  Gen 
eral,  biting  at  his  lip. 

"All  for  effect,  Cornelius,"  said  Janney.  "That 
fellow  is  an  artist.  He's  saving  his  face  for  the 
ordeal." 

"Let  him  save  his  neck,"  sneered  Bent. 

Janney  stretched  his  legs  forward  and  smoked 
comfortably.  "Break  it  if  you  like,  Cornelius," 
he  said.  "I  can't,  you  know,  so  long  as  he's  my 
guest." 

Wray  sauntered  in  some  moments  later,  accom 
panied  by  Rita  Cheyne.  General  Bent  looked 
up  with  a  scowl,  which  the  lady's  gay  assurance 
failed  to  dismiss. 

"May  I  come  in,  too?"  she  asked.  "I'm  wild 
to  hear  how  big  men  talk  business.  Won't  you  let 
me,  Cousin  Cornelius?  I'm  positively  thirsty  for 
knowledge  —  business  knowledge.  You  don't  mind, 
do  you,  Mr.  Janney?" 

"You  can't  be  interested." 

Wray  laughed,  "I'm  the  original  woolly  Western 
lamb  being  led  to  the  shearing,  Mrs.  Cheyne " 

"The  golden  fleece!"  she  put  in.  "I  know.  But 
I'm  not  going  to  allow  it.  You're  not  going  to 
let  them  —  are  you,  Jeff  Wray?" 

"I  never  knew  a  lamb  that  had  any  opinions  on 
the  matter,"  he  said  easily. 

The  General  got  to  his  feet  testily. 

"Rita,  this  won't  do  at  all.  We  wanted  to  speak 
to  Wray  privately " 

"Oh!  You  needn't  mind  me.  I'm  positively 
135 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


bursting  with  other  people's  confidences.  But  I'm 
really  the  soul  of  discretion.  Please  let  me  stay." 
She  went  over  to  Curtis  Janney  and  laid  her  hands 
on  his  shoulders  appealingly.  "I'll  sell  you  Jack- 
in-the-Box  if  you  will,  Mr.  Janney,"  she  said.  "You 
know  you've  wanted  that  horse  all  season." 

Janney  laughed.  "That's  a  great  temptation  — 
but  this  isn't  my  affair,"  and  he  glanced  at  General 
Bent,  who  stood  frowning  at  them  from  the  window. 

"Leave  the  room  at  once,  Rita!"  said  the  Gen 
eral  sternly.  "You're  interfering  here.  Can't  you 


Mrs.  Cheyne  dropped  her  hands. 

"Oh,  if  you  take  that  tone,  of  course."  She 
moved  toward  the  door,  turning  with  her  hand  on 
the  knob  —  "I  think  you're  horrid  —  both  of 
you.  I  hope  your  lamb  turns  out  to  be  a  lion,  and 
eats  you  up."  And,  with  a  laugh  and  a  toss  of  her 
head,  she  went  out,  banging  the  door  behind  her. 

Jeff  Wray  and  Curtis  Janney  laughed,  but  the 
frown  on  General  Bent's  face  had  not  relaxed  for 
an  instant.  When  the  door  had  closed  he  sat  down 
in  his  chair  again,  while  Janney  offered  cigars.  Jeff 
took  one  with  a  sudden  serious  air,  meant  perhaps 
as  a  tribute  to  the  attitude  and  years  of  his  fellow 
guest. 

Curtis  Janney,  looking  from  one  to  the  other, 
searched  each  face  for  signs  of  doubt  or  indeter- 
mination  and  found  in  each  the  same  deeply  set 
eyes,  straight  brow,  firm,  thin  mouth,  square  jaw, 
and  heavy  chin  which  he  recognized  as  belonging 

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TRITON  OF  THE  MINNOWS 

to  those  of  this  world  who  know  how  to  fight  and 
who  do  not  know  when  they  are  beaten.  Wray's 
features  were  heavier,  the  lines  in  the  General's 
face  more  deeply  bitten  by  the  acid  of  Time,  but 
their  features  were  so  much  alike  that,  had  Janney 
not  known  the  thing  was  impossible,  it  might  have 
been  easy  to  imagine  some  kind  of  collateral  or 
even  more  intimate  family  relationship. 

"You  asked  me  to  come  here,"  said  Wray,  easily 
apologetic.  "What  can  I  do  for  you,  General 
Bent?" 

Bent's  deeply  set  eyes  were  hidden  under  his 
bushy  eyebrows,  but  the  lips  which  held  his  cigar 
were  flickering  in  a  smile. 

"Yes,"  he  began  with  a  slow,  distinct  enuncia 
tion,  which  Wray  recognized  at  once  as  belonging 
to  his  office  downtown,  "I  thought  we  might  talk 
a  little  business,  if  Mr.  Janney  doesn't  object." 

"Not  in  the  least,"  said  Janney,  "but  there's  no 
reason  why  we  shouldn't  mix  in  a  little  of  the  Old 
Thome,"  and  he  handed  the  decanter  to  Wray. 
Cornelius  Bent  refused. 

"Wray,"  he  went  on,  "we've  been  talking  about 
your  plant  down  in  the  Valley.  From  all  we've 
been  able  to  find  out,  it's  a  pretty  good  proposition 
in  a  small  way.  But  the  Amalgamated  Reduction 
Company  has  no  special  interest  in  acquiring  it. 
That  mountain  range,  in  our  judgment,  will  never 
be  a  big  producer.  The  'Lone  Tree'  is  the  kind  of 
an  exception  that  one  finds  only  once  in  a  life 
time." 

10  137 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


"And  yet  we're  running  on  full  time,'*  said  Wray, 
with  an  odd  smile.  "If  the  other  mines  keep  up 
their  promise  we  won't  need  to  buy  any  more 
ore,  General." 

"The  mountains  of  the  West  are  full  of  holes  that 
once  were  promising,  Wray  —  like  notes  of  hand  — - 
but  they've  long  since  gone  to  protest." 

Jeff's  chin  tipped  upward  the  fraction  of  an  inch. 
"7'm  endorsing  these  notes,  General.  Besides," 
he  added  suavely,  "you  know  I'm  not  overanxious 
to  sell.  When  I  came  into  your  office  it  was  only 
with  the  hope  that  I  might  establish  friendly  re 
lations.  That,  I'm  glad  to  say,  I  succeeded  in  doing. 
Your  health,  Mr.  Janney." 

General  Bent  refused  to  be  disarmed.  "Yes, 
I  know.  But  friendship  and  business  are  two 
things.  Commercially  you  are  in  the  attitude  of  a 
rival  of  the  company  I  represent.  Of  course"  — 
opulently — "not  a  serious  rival,  but  one  who  must 
logically  be  considered  in  our  plans.  We  didn't 
like  your  building  that  smelter,  and  you  could  have 
brought  your  ore  at  a  fair  price  to  one  of  our  plants 
in  Pueblo  or  Colorado  Springs." 

"Yes  —  but  that  interfered  with  my  own  plans," 
said  Jeff.  "And  I  have  had  them  a  long 
time." 

"It's  a  little  late  to  talk  about  that,"  assented 
Bent.  "The  plant  is  there,  the  mines  are  there, 
and " 

"Yes.  But  I  don't  see  how  they  need  bother 
you.  Most  of  the  gold  we  send  to  market  comes 

138 


TRITON  OF  THE  MINNOWS 

from  the  'Lone  Tree.'  I  haven't  handled  any  ore 
below  your  prices  —  not  yet." 

There  was,  if  possible,  the  slightest  accent  on  the 
last  words,  but  Wray  uttered  them  with  a  sweet 
complacency  which  failed  to  deceive.  This  young 
fool  was  threatening  —  actually  threatening  the 
mighty  Smelting  Trust.  It  was  so  preposterous 
that  General  Bent  actually  laughed  —  a  thing  he 
seldom  did  below  Twenty-third  Street  or  when  he 
talked  business  elsewhere. 

"No,"  he  said  grimly.  "I'm  glad  that  didn't 
seem  necessary.  It  would  have  been  a  pity.  See 
here,  Wray" —  he  leaned  forward,  his  face  drawn 
in  decisive  lines  —  "let's  get  to  the  point.  We've 
both  been  dodging  it  very  consistently  for  a  month. 
You've  got  some  property  that  may  be  useful  to 
us.  We've  thought  enough  about  it  at  least  to 
make  a  few  inquiries  about  the  whole  situation  — 
and  about  you.  We  could  take  that  plant  under 
our  own  management  and  do  a  little  better  than 
you  could.  I  don't  think  the  location  really  war 
rants  it  —  for  the  big  mine  may  stop  paying  any  day 
and  the  railroad  facilities,  you'll  admit,  are  not  of 
the  best.  But,  if  you're  willing  to  sell  out  at  a 
moderate  figure,  we  might  buy  it.  Or,  perhaps, 
you'd  like  to  come  in  with  us  and  take  stock  in  the 
Company.  We  think  a  good  deal  of  your  ability. 
There  isn't  any  doubt  that  you  could  make  yourself 
useful  to  us  if  you  chose." 

"Thanks,"  said  Jeff,  with  a  sip  at  his  Scotch,  and 
then  looked  out  of  the  window.  He  had  caught 

139 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


the  meaning  of  General  Bent's  casual  remark  about 
the  railroad  facilities. 

"Of  course,"  Bent  went  on,  "I  don't  care  to  show 
improper  curiosity  about  your  plans,  but  if  you  are 
willing  to  meet  me  in  a  friendly  spirit  we  might  reach 
an  agreement  that  would  be  profitable  both  to  your 
companies  and  mine." 

"I'd  rather  think  it  was  interest  than  curiosity," 
said  Wray  with  a  smile.  "But,  unfortunately,  I 
haven't  got  any  plans  —  further  than  to  get 
all  the  ore  I  can  out  of  'Lone  Tree'  and  to  keep 
my  works  busy.  Just  now  I'm  pretty  happy  the 
way  things  are  going.  I've  screwed  the  lid 
down,  and  I'm  sitting  on  it,  besides  —  with  one 
eye  peeled  for  the  fellow  with  the  screw 
driver." 

Cornelius  Bent  controlled  his  anger  with  difficulty. 
His  equality  with  Jeff,  as  a  guest  of  Curtis  Janney, 
gave  Wray  some  advantages.  The  easy  good 
nature  with  which  he  faced  the  situation  and  his 
amused  indifference  to  the  danger  which  threatened 
him  put  the  burden  of  proof  on  the  General,  who 
experienced  the  feelings  of  an  emperor  who  has 
been  jovially  poked  in  the  ribs  by  the  least  of  his 
subjects.  This  was  lese  majeste.  Wray  was  either 
a  fool  or  a  madman. 

"Has  it  never  occurred  to  you,  Wray,"  snapped 
Bent,  "that  somebody  might  come  along  with  an 
axe?" 

"Er  —  no.  I  hadn't  thought  of  that,"  he  replied 
quietly. 

140 


TRITON  OF  THE  MINNOWS 

"Well,  think  it  over.     It's  worth  your  while." 

"Is  this  a  declaration  of  war?" 

"Oh,  no,"  hastily,  "merely  a  movement  for 
peace." 

Wray  took  a  few  puffs  at  his  cigar  and  looked  from 
Janney  to  the  General,  like  a  man  on  whom  some 
great  truth  had  suddenly  dawned. 

"I  had  no  idea,"  he  said,  with  a  skillfully  assumed 
expression  of  wonder,  "that  the  Amalgamated  was 
so  desperately  anxious  as  this." 

In  drawing  aside  the  curtain,  he  had  still  managed 
to  retain  his  tactical  advantage.  Both  older  men 
felt  it  —  Bent  more  than  Janney,  because  it  was 
he  who  had  shown  their  hand,  while  Wray's  cards 
were  still  unread. 

The  natural  response  was  tolerant  amusement,  and 
both  of  them  made  it. 

"Anxious?"  laughed  Bent.  "Is  the  lion  anxious 
when  the  wolf  comes  prowling  in  his  jungle?  Suc 
cess  has  twisted  your  perspective,  my  dear  Wray. 
The  Amalgamated  is  not  anxious  —  it  has,  however, 
a  natural  interest  in  the  financial  health  of  its 
competitors." 

"But   I'm  not   a   competitor.     That's   just   the  ' 
point.     I'm  governed  by  your  methods,  your  plans, 
your  prices.     I've  been  pretty  careful  about  that. 
No,  sir,  I  know  better  than  to  look  for  trouble  with 
the  Amalgamated." 

"One  moment,  Wray,"  put  in  Janney;  "we  don't 
seem  to  be  getting  anywhere.  Let's  simplify 
matters.  We  can  get  along  without  your  plant, 

141 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


but  if  we  wanted  to  buy,  what  would  you  want 
for  it?" 

"Do  you  mean  the  smelter  —  or  all  my  interests 
in  the  Valley?"  asked  Wray  quickly. 

"The  smelter,  of  course  —  and  the  Denver  and 
Saguache  Railroad." 

"I  don't  care  to  sell  —  I've  got  other  interests  - 
my   Development    Company,  the   coal    mines    and 
lumber  —  they're  all  a  part  of  the  same  thing,  Mr. 
Janney,  like  the  limbs  of  my  body  —  cut  one  off, 
and  I  might  bleed  to  death." 

"We  could  give  you  traffic  agreements." 

"J'd  rather  not.     I'll  sell  —  but  only  as  a  whole 
—  gold  mines,  coal,  lumber,  and  all." 

Wray  caught  General  Bent's  significant  nod. 

"That   is   my   last    word,    gentlemen,"    he   con 
cluded  firmly. 

There  was  a  silence,  which  Cornelius  Bent  broke 
at  last. 

"And    what   is    your    figure,    Mr.    Wray?"    he 
asked. 

Jeff  Wray  reached  for  the  match  box,  slowly 
re-lit  his  cigar,  which  emitted  clouds  of  smoke, 
through  which  presently  came  his  reply.  "You 
gentlemen  have  been  kind  to  me  here  in  New  York. 
I  want  you  to  know  that  I  appreciate  it.  You've 
|  shown  me  a  side  of  life  I  never  knew  existed.  I  like 
the  West,  but  I  like  New  York,  too.  I  want  to 
build  a  house  and  spend  my  winters  here  —  I  wasn't 
figuring  on  doing  that  just  yet  —  but  if  you  really 
want  my  interests  I'll  sell  them  to  you  —  without 

142 


TRITON  OF  THE  MINNOWS 

reservation  —  every  stick  and  stone  of  them  for 
thirty  millions." 

"Thirty  millions?" 

The  voices  of  both  men  sounded  as  one,  Janney's 
frankly  incredulous  —  Bent's  satirical  and  vastly 
unpleasant. 

"Thirty  millions!"  Bent  repeated  with  a  sneer. 
"Dollars  or  cents,  Mr.  Wray?" 

Jeff  turned  and  looked  at  him  with  the  innocent 
and  somewhat  vacuous  stare  which  had  learned  its 
utility  in  a  great  variety  of  services.  Jeff  only  meant 
it  as  a  disguise,  but  the  General  thought  it  impudent. 

"Dollars,  sir,"  said  Jeff  coolly.  "It  will  pay  me 
that  —  in  time." 

"In  a  thousand  years,"  roared  the  General. 
"The  Amalgamated  doesn't  figure  on  millenniums, 
Mr.  Wray.  We  don't  want  your  other  interests,  but 
we'll  buy  them  —  for  five  million  dollars  —  in  cash 
—  and  not  a  cent  more.  You  can  sell  at  that  price 
or  — "  the  General  did  not  see,  or  refused  to  see, 
the  warning  glance  from  Janney  —  "or  be  wiped 
off  the  map.  Is  that  clear?" 

"I  think  so,  sir,"  said  Wray  politely.  "Will  you 
excuse  me,  Mr.  Janney?"  and  bowed  himself  out 
of  the  room. 


CHAPTER  XI 

DISCORD 

THAT  afternoon  late,  Berkely  and  the  Wrays 
returned  to  town,  and  the  Western  wires 
tingled  with  Jeff's  telegrams  to  Pueblo, 
Kinney,  and  Mesa  City.  He  had  burnt  his  bridges 
behind  him,  and,  like  a  skillful  cavalry  leader,  was 
picking  out  the  vantage  points  in  the  enemy's 
country.  The  answers  came  slowly,  but  Wray 
had  planned  his  campaign  before  he  left  the  West, 
and  the  messages  were  satisfactory.  He  realized 
that  his  utility  in  New  York,  for  the  present  at 
least,  was  at  an  end,  and  he  saw  that  he  must  soon 
leave  for  the  West  to  repair  any  possible  break 
in  his  line  of  communications. 

Camilla  learned  of  his  intended  departure  with 
mingled  feelings.  Her  husband's  rather  ostentatious 
deference  to  Mrs.  Cheyne  had  annoyed  her.  She 
knew  in  her  heart  that  she  had  no  right  to  cavil  or 
to  criticise,  and  pride  forbade  that  she  should  ques 
tion  him.  Larry's  presence  at  dinner  precluded 
personal  discussions,  and  Camilla  sat  silent  while 
the  men  talked  seriously  of  Jeff's  business  plans. 
It  had  not  been  her  husband's  habit  to  discuss  his 
affairs  with  her,  and,  when  the  coffee  was  served, 
he  asked  her  coolly  if  she  wouldn't  rather  be  alone. 

144 


DISCORD 


"Do  you  mind  if  I  stay,  Jeff?"  she  asked.  "I'd 
like  to  hear,  if  you  don't  mind." 

"I'd  rather  you  wouldn't.  You  can't  be  inter 
ested  in  this  —  besides,  the  matter  is  rather  impor 
tant  and  confidential." 

She  got  up  quickly.  Larry  Berkely,  who  had 
caught  the  expression  in  her  eyes,  opened  the  door 
for  her  and  followed  her  into  the  drawing  room. 

"Don't  be  annoyed,  Camilla,"  he  whispered. 
"Jeff  is  worried.  You  understand,  don't  you?" 

"Oh,  yes,  I  understand,"  she  replied  wearily. 
"Don't  mind  me." 

As  the  door  closed  behind  him  she  stood  irreso 
lute  for  a  moment,  then  suddenly  realized  she  had 
been  up  since  dawn  and  was  very  tired.  Her  body 
ached,  and  her  muscles  were  sore,  but  the  weariness 
in  her  mind  was  greater  than  these.  The  closing 
of  the  dining-room  door  had  robbed  her  of  the 
refuge  she  most  needed.  She  wanted  to  talk  —  to 
hear  them  talk  —  anything  that  would  banish  her 
own  thoughts  —  anything  that  would  straighten  out 
the  disorderly  tangle  of  her  late  impressions  of  the 
new  life  and  the  people  she  had  met  in  it.  She  had 
never  thought  of  Jeff  as  sanctuary  before,  and 
yet  she  now  realized,  when  the  support  of  his 
strength  was  denied  her,  that  in  her  heart  she  had 
always  more  or  less  depended  upon  him  for  guid 
ance. 

And  yet  she  feared  him,  too.  A  while  ago  she  had 
been  filled  with  horror  at  his  share  in  the  "Lone 
Tree"  affair,  and  since  that  time  the  knowledge  had 

145 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


haunted  her.  But  she  had  not  dared  to  speak  of 
it  to  him.  She  felt  instinctively  that  this  was  one 
of  the  matters  upon  the  other  side  of  the  gulf  that 
had  always  yawned  with  more  or  less  imminence 
between  them.  Their  relations  were  none  too 
stable  to  risk  a  chance  of  further  discord.  The 
difference  in  his  manner  which  she  had  noticed  a 
week  or  more  ago  had  become  more  marked,  and 
to-night  at  the  dinner  table  he  had  troubled  less  than 
usual  to  disguise  his  lack  of  interest  in  her  opinions. 
The  image  of  Cort  was  ever  in  her  mind,  and  the 
danger  that  threatened  her  seemed  no  less  distant 
than  before,  and  yet  she  still  hoped,  as  she  had 
always  done,  that  something  would  happen  —  some 
miracle,  some  psychological  crisis  which  would 
show  her  husband  and  herself  the  way  to  unity. 
Since  she  had  seen  Cortland  Bent,  she  had  lost 
some  faith  in  herself,  gained  some  fear  of  Jeff,  whose 
present  attitude  she  was  at  a  loss  to  understand, 
but  she  still  clung  desperately  to  the  tattered  shreds 
of  their  strange  union,  though  lately  even  those 
seemed  less  tangible.  To-night,  when  she  had  asked 
him  to  take  her  West  with  him,  he  had  refused 
her  impatiently  —  almost  brusquely. 

She  went  into  her  own  rooms  slowly  and  undressed. 
As  she  sat  before  her  mirror,  the  sight  of  the  scratch 
on  her  face  recalled  the  incidents  of  the  day.  Mrs. 
Cheyne !  Her  lips  drew  together,  her  brows  tangled 
in  thought,  and  she  dismissed  her  maid,  who  had 
come  in  to  brush  her  hair.  What  right  had  Jeff 
to  ignore  her  as  he  had  done?  No  matter  what  her 

146 


DISCORD 


own  shortcomings,  in  public,  at  least,  she  had 
always  shown  him  a  proper  respect  and  had  never 
in  her  heart  dishonored  him  by  an  unworthy  thought. 
For  one  brief  moment  in  Cortland  Bent's  arms  she 
had  been  swept  from  the  shallows  into  deeper  water, 
but  even  then  she  had  known,  as  she  knew  now, 
that  loyalty  to  Jeff  had  always  been  uppermost 
in  her  thoughts.  They  must  have  an  understanding 
before  he  went  away.  She  would  not  be  left  here 
in  New  York  alone.  She  had  learned  to  distrust 
herself,  to  distrust  Jeff,  Cort,  and  all  the  charming 
irresponsible  people  of  the  gay  set  into  which  they 
had  been  introduced. 

In  her  dressing  gown  she  sat  before  her  fire  and 
listened  to  the  murmur  of  voices  in  the  drawing 
room,  from  which  she  had  been  banished.  She  could 
hear  Jeff's  steps  as  he  rose  and  paced  the  floor,  his 
voice  louder  and  more  insistent  than  Larry's. 
There  was  a  coming  and  going  of  pages  delivering 
and  receiving  telegrams,  and  she  felt  the  under 
current  of  a  big  crisis  in  Jeff's  career  —  the 
nature  of  which  she  had  only  been  permitted 
to  surmise.  His  attitude  had  wounded  her  pride. 
It  hurt  her  that  Larry  should  see  her  placed  in 
the  position  of  a  petitioner.  Her  one  comfort 
was  the  assurance  that  she  did  not  care  what 
Jeff  himself  thought  of  her,  that  it  was  her  pride 
which  insisted  on  a  public  readjustment  of  their 
relations. 

Camilla  got  up,  slowly,  thoughtfully,  and  at 
last  moved  to  the  bell  determinately. 

147 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


To  her  maid  she  said,  "Tell  Mr.  Wray  I'd  like 
to  see  him  before  he  goes  out." 

When  Wray  entered  the  room  later,  a  frown  on 
his  face,  the  cloud  of  business  worry  in  his  eyes,  he 
found  Camilla  asleep  on  the  divan  under  a  lamp, 
a  magazine  on  the  rug  beside  her,  where  it  had 
fallen  from  her  fingers.  His  lips  had  been  set  for 
short  words,  but  when  he  saw  her  he  closed  the  door 
noiselessly  behind  him.  Even  sleep  could  not 
diminish  the  proud  curve  of  the  nostrils,  or  change 
the  firmly  modeled  chin  and  the  high,  clearly 
penciled  brows.  Jeff  looked  at  her  a  moment, 
his  face  showing  some  of  the  old  reverence  —  the 
old  awe  of  her  beauty. 

And  while  he  looked,  she  stirred  uneasily  and 
murmured  a  name.  He  started  so  violently  that 
a  chair  beside  him  scraped  the  floor  and  awoke  her. 

"I  must  have  —  oh  —  it's  you,  Jeff " 

"You  wanted  to  see  me?"  he  asked  harshly. 

"Yes  — I "    She  sat  up  languidly.     "I  did 

want  to  see  you.  There  are  some  things  I  want 
to  talk  about  —  some  things  I  want  explained.  Sit 
down,  won't  you?" 

"I  —  I  haven't  much  time." 

"I  won't  keep  you  long.  You've  decided  to  go 
West  — without  me?" 

"Yes,  next  week.     Perhaps  sooner  if " 

"I  want  you  to  change  your  mind  about  taking 
me  with  you." 

"Why?" 

"I  want  to  go." 

148 


DISCORD 


Jeff  laughed  disagreeably.  "You  women  are 
funny.  For  a  year  you've  been  telling  me  that  the 
only  thing  you  wanted  was  a  visit  to  New  York. 
Now  you're  here,  you  want  to  go  back.  I've  told 
you  to  get  all  the  clothes  you  need,  hired  you  an 
apartment  in  the  best  hotel,  given  you  some  swell 
friends,  bought  you  jewelry " 

"I  don't  want  jewelry,  or  clothes,  or  friends," 
she  insisted.  "I  want  to  go  back  and  watch  them 
build 'Glen  Irwin.'" 

"They've  stopped  working  on  'Glen  Irwin.'  I 
wanted  the  money  that  was  going  into  that." 

"Oh!" 

"I've  a  big  fight  on,  and  I  need  all  the  capital 
I  can  swing.  'Glen  Irwin'  will  have  to  wait,"Lhe 
finished  grimly. 

"Of  course  —  I  didn't  understand.  But  it  makes 
no  difference.  I  can  stay  at  the  hotel  or  at  Mrs. 
Brennan's." 

"After  all  this?  Oh,  no,  you'd  be  miserable. 
Besides,  I  have  other  plans." 

"You  don't  want  me?" 

"No.     I'll  be  very  busy." 

"No  busier  than  you  were  before  we  came 
here." 

Jeff  paced  the  length  of  the  room  and  returned 
before  he  answered  her. 

"See  here,  Camilla.  You  ought  to  know  by  this 
time  that  when  I  say  a  thing  I  mean  it.  I'm 
going  West  alone  to  do  some  fence-building.  You're 
to  stay  here  and  do  the  same  thing  —  socially. 

149 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


I  need  these  people  in  my  business,  and  I  want  you 
to  keep  on  good  terms  with  them." 

She  gazed  thoughtfully  at  the  fire.  "Don't  you 
believe  me  when  I  say  I  want  to  go  with  you?" 

Jeff  made  an  abrupt  movement.  "  Well  —  hardly. 
We've  always  got  along  pretty  well,  so  long  as  each 
of  us  followed  our  own  pursuits.  But  I  think  you 
might  as  well  acknowledge  that  you  don't  need 
me  —  haven't  needed  me  now  or  at  any  other 
time." 

"I  do  need  you,  Jeff.  I  want  to  try  and  take  a 
greater  interest  in  your  affairs  —  to  help  you  if  I 
can,  socially  if  necessary,  but  I'd  rather  do  it  with 
you  than  alone." 

"I  may  not  be  gone  long  —  perhaps  only  a  week 
or  so.  In  the  meanwhile,  you're  your  own  mis 
tress." 

"You've  always  let  me  be  that.  But  I  have 
reasons  for  wanting  to  leave  New  York." 

Wray  turned  and  stared  at  her  blankly. 
"Reasons?" 

"Yes.  I  — I'm  a  little  tired.  The  life  here  is 
so  gay.  I'm  unused  to  it.  It  bewilders  me." 

"I  think  I  understand,"  he  said  slowly.  "But 
it  can't  be  helped.  I  want  you  to  cultivate  the 
Mclntyres,  the  Warringtons,  and  the  Rumsens. 
Larry  will  stay  here  in  the  hotel  for  a  while.  You 
can  call  on  him." 

She  fingered  the  pages  of  a  book  beside  her. 
"Then  this  is  final?"  she  asked. 

"Yes  —  you  must  do  as  I  say." 
150 


DISCORD 


He  had  never  before  used  that  tone  with  her. 
The  warm  impulse  that  had  sought  this  interview 
was  dried  at  its  source.  "Very  well  —  I'll  stay/' 
she  said  coldly,  "no  matter  what  happens." 

He  examined  her  shrewdly. 

"You're  afraid?"  he  asked.  "That's  too  bad. 
I  thought  I  was  doing  you  a  service." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"Cort  Bent.  That's  what  I  mean.  Cort  Bent. 
He's  yours.  I  give  him  to  you." 

"Jeff!" 

She  rose  and  faced  him,  trembling,  and  her  eyes 
flickered  like  a  guttering  candle,  as  she  tried  to 
return  his  look.  " How  could  you? "  she  stammered. 
"How  could  you  speak  to  me  so?" 

But  he  was  merciless.  "Oh,  I'm  not  blind,  and 
I'm  not  deaf,  either.  I've  seen  and  I've  heard.  But 
I  didn't  need  to  see  or  to  hear.  Don't  you  suppose 
I've  always  known  you  married  me  out  of  spite 
—  out  of  pique,  because  Cort  Bent  wouldn't  marry 
you.  I  knew  it  then  just  as  I  know  it  now,  but  I 
hoped  I  could  win  you  back  and  that  things  would 
be  the  same  as  they  were  before  he  came  meddling 
in  my  affairs.  Well,  you  know  what  happened 
better  than  I  do.  Our  marriage  has  been  a  failure. 
I  was  a  fool  —  so  were  you.  We've  made  the 
best  of  a  bad  job,  but  that  don't  make  it  a  good  job. 
I  let  you  go  your  own  way.  I've  been  good  to  you 
because  I  knew  I'd  been  as  big  a  fool  as  you  were. 
What  I  didn't  know  was  that  you'd  met  Cort  Bent 

behind  my  back " 

151 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


"That  is  not  true,"  she  broke  in.  "That  day  he 
called  here " 

"Don't  explain,"  impatiently,  "it  won't  help 
matters.  I'm  not  blind.  The  main  fact  is  that 
you've  seen  Cort  Bent  again  and  that  you're  still 
in  love  with  him.  These  people  are  talking  about 

you." 

"Who?    Mrs.  Cheyne?" 

"Yes,  Mrs.  Cheyne  —  and  others." 

Camilla  steadied  herself  with  a  hand  upon  the 
table.  The  brutality  of  his  short,  sharp  indictment 
unnerved  her  for  the  moment.  She  had  hoped  he 
would  have  given  her  the  opportunity  to  make  an 
explanation  in  her  own  way,  a  confession  even 
which,  if  he  had  willed,  might  have  brought  them 
nearer  in  spirit  than  they  had  ever  been.  But  that 
was  now  impossible.  Every  atom  of  him  breathed 
antagonism  —  and  the  words  of  her  avowal  were 
choked  in  the  hot  effusion  of  blood  which  pride  and 
shame  sent  coursing  to  her  throat  and  temples. 

"And  if  I  am  still  in  love  with  him,"  she  said 
insolently,  "what  then?"  He  looked  at  her  admir 
ingly,  for  scorn  became  her. 

"Oh,  nothing,"  he  said  with  a  shrug.  "Only 
be  careful,  that's  all.  Back  in  Mesa  City  I  thought 
of  shooting  Cort  Bent,  but  I  found  a  better  way  to 
punish  him.  Here"  —  he  laughed  —  "I've  a  differ 
ent  plan.  I'm  going  to  give  you  a  free  foot.  I'm 
going  to  throw  [  you  two  together  —  to  give  you  a 
chance  to  work  out  your  salvation  in  your  own  way. 
Your  marriage  to  me  means  nothing  to  you.  Time 

152 


DISCORD 


has  proved  that.  You  and  I  are  oil  and  water. 
We  don't  mix.  We  never  have  mixed.  There 
isn't  any  reason  that  I  can  see  that  we're  ever  going 
to  mix.  We've  worried  along  somehow,  to  date, 
but  it's  getting  on  my  nerves.  I'd  rather  we  under 
stood  each  other  once  and  for  all.  I'm  past  changing. 
You  knew  what  I  was  —  a  queer  weed,  a  mongrel. 
I  took  root  and  I  grew  as  Nature  made  me  grow,  in 
the  soil  I  fell  in,  hardy,  thick-ribbed,  stubborn,  and 
lawless.  The  world  was  my  enemy,  but  I  fought 
it  as  Nature  taught,  by  putting  on  a  rough  bark 
and  spines  like  the  cactus  that  grew  beside  me. 
Oh,  I  grew  flowers,  too,  pretty  pale  blossoms  that 
tried  to  open  to  the  sun.  You  had  a  chance  to  see 
them  —  but  they  weren't  your  kind.  You  looked 
beyond  them  at  the  hot-house  plants " 

"Don't,  Jeff,"  she  pleaded.     "I  can't  bear  it." 

But  he  only  laughed  at  her. 

"Well,  I've  brought  them  to  you  —  the  roses, 
the  orchids,  the  carnations,  and  you're  going  to 
live  with  them,  in  the  atmosphere  you've  always 
wanted " 

"Won't  you  let  me  speak?" 

"No!"  he  thundered.  "My  mind  is  made  up. 
I'm  going  West  alone.  You  go  your  way.  I  go 
mine.  Is  that  clear?  You  and  Cortland  Bent 
can  meet  when  and  where  you  please." 

"I  don't  want  to  meet  him,"  she  whispered  brok 
enly.  "I  don't  want  to  see  him  again." 

"I  can't  believe  you,"  he  sneered.  "We've  lived 
a  lie  since  we  were  married.  Let's  tell  the  truth 
11  153 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


for  once  in  our  lives.  When  I  came  in  this  room 
you  were  asleep,  but  even  while  you  slept  you 
dreamed  of  him  and  his  name  was  in  your  mouth." 

The  face  she  turned  up  to  him  was  haggard,  but 
her  eyes  were  wide  with  wonder. 

"I  heard  you  —  you  were  calling  for  Cort.  I'm 
not  going  to  be  a  fool  any  longer." 

He  turned  away  from  her  and  went  toward  the 
door,  while  she  got  up  with  some  dignity  and  walked 
to  the  fireplace. 

"You're  going  —  to  Mrs.  Cheyne?"  she  asked 
coldly. 

"If  I  like,"  defiantly.  "This  game  works  both 
ways." 

"Yes,  I  see.  There's  some  method  in  your  mad 
ness  after  all." 

"I  don't  see  why  you  should  care  —  since  I  don't 
object  to  Bent.  Mrs.  Cheyne  is  a  friend  of  mine. 
She's  investing  in  my  company ' 

"Evidently,"  with  scorn.  "No  doubt  you  make 
it  profitable  to  her." 

"We  won't  talk  about  Mrs.  Cheyne.  You  don't 
like  her.  I  do.  You  like  Cort  Bent.  I  don't. 
And  there  we  are.  We  understand  each  other. 
It's  the  first  time  in  our  lives  we  ever  have.  I 
don't  question  you,  and  you're  not  to  question  me. 
All  I  ask  is  that  you  hide  your  trail,  as  I'll  hide 
mine.  I  have  some  big  interests  at  stake,  and  I 
don't  want  any  scandal  hanging  around  my  name 
—  or  yours.  I'm  giving  you  into  the  hands  of  my 
enemies.  The  father  wants  to  ruin  my  business, 

154 


DISCORD 


the  son  to  ruin  my  wife.  I'll  fight  General  Bent 
with  his  own  weapons.  The  son " 

"You're  insulting,"  she  broke  in.     "Will  you  go?" 

He  turned  at  the  door  —  his  face  pale  with  fury. 

"Yes,  I'll  go.  And  I  won't  bother  you  again. 
These  rooms  are  yours.  When  I'm  here,  mine  are 
there.  Some  day  when  I'm  ready  I'll  get  you  a 
divorce.  Then  you  can  marry  as  you  please.  As 
for  me,"  he  finished  passionately,  "I'm  done  with 
marriage  —  done  with  it  —  you  understand?  " 

And  the  door  crashed  between  them. 

Camilla  stood  for  a  moment,  tense  and  breathless, 
staring  wide-eyed  at  the  pitiless  door.  Then  the 
room  went  whirling  and  she  caught  at  the  chair  at 
her  desk  and  sank  into  it  helplessly,  one  hand  pressed 
against  her  breast.  For  a  moment  she  could  not 
think,  could  not  see  even.  The  brutality  of  his 
insults  had  driven  her  out  of  her  bearings.  Why 
he  had  not  struck  her  she  could  not  imagine,  for 
it  was  in  the  character  of  the  part  he  was  playing. 
He  had  not  given  her  a  chance.  He  must  have 
seen  that  she  was  trying  to  repair  past  damages  and 
begin  anew.  A  throb  of  self-pity  that  was  almost 
a  sob  came  into  her  throat.  Tears  gathered  in  her 
eyes  and  pattered  on  the  desk  before  her.  She  did 
not  notice  them  until  she  heard  them  fall,  and  then 
she  dried  her  eyes  abruptly  as  though  in  shame 
for  a  weakness.  He  did  not  want  to  begin  anew. 
She  could  see  it  all  clearly  now.  He  was  tired  of 
her  and  caught  at  the  easiest  way  to  be  rid  of  her, 
by  putting  her  in  the  wrong.  Her  strength  came 

155 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


quickly  as  she  found  the  explanation,  and  she  sat 
up  rigidly  in  her  chair,  her  face  hot  with  shame 
and  resentment.  She  deserved  something  better 
from  him  than  this.  All  that  was  worst  in  her 
clamored  for  utterance. 

With  a  quick  movement  of  decision  she  reached 
forward  for  a  pen  and  paper  and  wrote  rapidly  a 
scrawl,  then  rang  the  bell  for  her  maid. 

"Have  this  note  mailed  at  once." 

It  was  addressed  to  Cortland  Bent. 


CHAPTER  XH 

TEA   CUPS   AND   MUSIC 

DROPPING  in  on  Jack  Perot  meant  being 
shot  skyward  for  twelve  stories  in  a  Louis 
Sixteenth  elevator  operated  by  a  magnifi 
cent  person  in  white  gloves  and  the  uniform  of  a 
Prussian  lieutenant.  Perot's  panelled  door  was  no 
different  from  others  in  the  corridor  upstairs,  ex 
cept  for  its  quaint  bronze  knocker,  but  the  appear 
ance  of  a  man-servant  in  livery  and  the  glimpse  of 
soft  tapestries  and  rare  and  curious  furniture  which 
one  had  on  entering  the  small  reception  room  gave 
notice  that  a  person  of  more  than  ordinary  culture 
and  taste  dwelt  within.  The  studio  of  the  painter 
itself  was  lofty,  the  great  north  window  extending 
the  full  height  of  two  stories  of  the  building,  while 
the  apartment  beyond,  a  library  and  dining  room 
with  steps  leading  above  to  the  bedrooms,  contained 
all  the  luxuries  that  the  most  exacting  bachelor 
might  require. 

To  arrive  at  the  distinction  of  being  a  fashionable 
portrait  painter  one  must  have  many  qualifications. 
In  the  schools  one  must  know  how  to  draw  and  to 
paint  from  the  model.  In  the  fashionable  studio 
one  must  know  how  to  draw  and  paint  —  then  dis 
cover  how  not  to  do  either.  If  the  nose  of  one's 

157 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


sitter  is  too  long,  one  must  know  how  to  chop  it 
off  at  the  end;  if  the  mouth  is  too  wide,  one  must 
approximate  it  to  the  Greek  proportions;  eyes  that 
squint  must  be  made  squintless  and  colorful;  pro 
truding  ears  must  be  reduced.  Indeed,  there  is 
nothing  that  the  beauty  doctor  professes  to  accom 
plish  that  the  fashionable  portrait  painter  must  not 
do  with  his  magic  brush.  He  must  make  the 
lean  spinster  stout  and  the  stout  dowager  lean; 
the  freckled,  spotless;  the  vulgar,  elegant;  the  anae 
mic,  rosy;  his  whole  metier  is  to  select  agreeable 
characteristics  and  to  present  them  so  forcibly  that 
the  unpleasant  ones  may  be  forgotten,  to  paint 
people  as  they  ought  to  be  rather  than  as  they  are, 
to  put  women  in  silk  who  were  meant  for  shoddy, 
and  men  in  tailored  coats  who  have  grown  up  in 
shirt-sleeves. 

In  addition  to  these  purely  technical  attainments, 
he  must  be  an  infallible  judge  of  character,  a  diplo 
mat,  a  sophist;  he  must  have  a  silver  tea-service,  to 
say  nothing  of  excellent  Scotch  and  cigarettes. 
He  must  be  able  to  write  a  sonnet  or  mix  a  salad, 
discuss  the  Book  of  Job  or  the  plays  of  Bernard 
Shaw,  follow  the  quotations  of  the  stock  market, 
the  news  of  the  day,  and  the  fashions  in  women's 
hats.  He  must  laugh  when  he  feels  dejected  and 
look  dejected  when  he  feels  like  laughing.  Indeed, 
there  is  nothing  the  fashionable  portrait  painter 
must  not  be  able  to  do,  except  perhaps  really  —  to 
paint. 

Jack  Perot  could  even  do  that,  too,  when  he 

158 


TEA  CUPS  AND  MUSIC 


wanted  to.  The  sketch  of  the  Baroness  Charny 
on  his  easel  was  really  sincere  —  an  honest  bit  of 
painting  done  with  the  freedom  his  other  work 
lacked.  Perhaps  this  was  because  it  was  not 
a  commission,  but  just  one  of  those  happy  interludes 
which  sometimes  occur  amid  the  dreariest  of  mea 
sures.  It  pleased  him,  at  any  rate,  and  he  stood 
off  from  it  squinting  delightedly  through  his  monocle 
while  the  Baroness  poured  the  tea. 

"Really,  madame,  it's  too  bad  it's  finished.  I 
was  almost  ready  to  believe  myself  back  in  Paris 
again,"  he  said  in  French.  "If  one  could  only  live 
one's  life  backward!" 

"Oh,  that  wouldn't  do  —  in  a  little  while  perhaps 
you  would  be  quite  poor." 

"Yes,"  he  sighed,  "but  think  how  much  better 
I  would  paint."  He  stopped  before  the  sketch  and 
sighed  again.  "I  think  it's  you,  Baroness.  You 
bring  an  echo  of  my  vanished  youth.  Besides,  I 
didn't  paint  you  for  money.  That  is  the  difference." 

"You  are  going  to  paint  that  handsome  Madame 
Wray?" 

"Yes.     She's  coming  in  for  tea  to-day." 

"They  are  wonderful,  those  people.  He  is  so 
original  —  so  farouche.'9 

"He's  too  fond  of  talking  about  himself,"  he 
growled.  "These  people  represent  the  Western 
type  so  common  in  New  York — climbers  —  but  New 
York  will  forgive  much  in  the  husband  of  Mrs.  Wray." 

"He  doesn't  care  whether  he's  forgiven  or  not, 
does  he?" 

159 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


"That's  a  pose.  All  Westerners  adopt  it.  To 
consent  to  be  like  other  people  would  be  to  confess 
a  weakness." 

"I  like  him;  but]  then"  —  the  Baroness  yawned 
politely  — "  all  Americans  are  attractive.  Mrs.  Wray 
I  find  less  interesting." 

"Naturally,  madame.  You  are  a  woman."  Then, 
after  a  pause,  "It  is  a  pity  she's  getting  herself 
talked  about." 

"Really?  That's  encouraging  —  with  Monsieur 
Bent?" 

"Oh,  yes  —  they  met  in  the  West  —  the  phenix 
of  an  old  romance." 

"How  delightful!    Monsieur  Jeff  doesn't  care?" 

"Oh,  no,"  significantly.     "He  has  his  reasons." 

The  door-knocker  clanged,  and  Mrs.  Rumsen 
entered,  escorting  two  debutantes,  who  paused  on 
the  threshold  of  the  studio  gurglingly,  their  eyes 
round  with  timidity  and  a  precocious  hopefulness 
of  imminent  deviltries. 

"So  kind  of  you,  Mrs.  Rurnsen.  Good  morning, 
Miss  Van  Alstyne  —  Miss  Champney"  (with  Jack 
Perot  it  was  always  morning  until  six  of  the  after 
noon).  "You've  met  the  Baroness?" 

"How  too  thweetly  perfect!" 

"How  fearfully  interesting!" 

The  newcomers  fluttered  palpitantly  from  canvas 
to  canvas  and  only  subsided  when  Mrs.  Cheyne 
entered. 

"Am  I  welcome?"  she  drawled.  "This  is  your 
day,  isn't  it,  Jack?  Oh,  how  charming!"  She 

160 


TEA  CUPS  AND  MUSIC 


paused  before  the  sketch  of  the  Baroness.  "Why 
didn't  you  paint  me  like  that?  I'll  never  forgive 
you.  You  were  painting  me  for  Cheyne,  I  know  it. 
My  portrait  fairly  exudes  the  early  Victorian." 

Perot  kissed  the  tips  of  his  fingers  and  wafted  them 
toward  her.  "Quite  correct,  dear  Rita.  Cheyne 
was  paying  the  bill.  Now  if  you  gave  me  another 
commission " 

"I  won't  —  you're  the  most  mercenary  creature. 
Besides,  I'm  too  hard  up.  One  must  really  have 
billions  nowadays."  She  sank  on  the  couch  beside 
the  Baroness.  "  It's  really  very  exhausting  —  trying 
to  live  on  one's  income.  I'm  very  much  afraid  I 
shall  have  to  marry  again." 

"You  need  a  manager.     May  I  offer " 

"No,  thanks.  I  shall  be  in  the  poor-house  soon 
enough." 

"Get  Mr.  Wray  to  help,"  laughed  the  painter 
mischievously.  "They  say  he  has  a  way  of  making 
dollars  bloom  from  sage-brush." 

She  glanced  at  him  swiftly,  but  took  her  cup  of 
tea  from  the  Baroness  and  held  her  peace. 

The  knocker  clanged  again,  and  Mrs.  Wray, 
Miss  Janney,  Larry  Berkely,  and  Cortland  Bent 
came  in. 

"This  is  really  jolly,  Gretchen.  Hello!  Cort, 
Berkely  —  Mrs.  Wray,  I've  been  pining  to  see  your 
hair  against  my  old  tapestry.  Oh !  shades  of  Titian ! 
Can  I  ever  dare?" 

Camilla  colored  softly,  aware  of  Mrs.  Cheyne's 
sleepy  eyes  in  the  shadow  below  the  skylight.  She 

161 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


nodded  in  their  general  direction  and  then  took 
Mrs.  Rumsen's  proffered  hand  —  and  the  seat 
beside  her. 

"I  was  so  sorry  to  have  missed  you  this  morning," 
she  said.  "I'm  always  out,  it  seems,  when  the 
people  I  want  to  see  come  in." 

"I  should  have  'phoned,"  said  the  lady.  "I  had 
something  particular  to  speak  to  you  about.  Is 
your  husband  coming  here?" 

,"I  —  I  really  don't  know,"  Camilla  stammered. 
"He  has  been  away  and  very  busy." 

"He'll  be  back  for  my  dance,  won't  he?" 

"I  think  so  —  but  he's  never  certain.  He's 
going  West  very  soon." 

"He  was  telling  me  something  about  his  early 
life.  You  ought  to  be  very  proud  of  him." 

"I  — lam." 

"I  can't  tell  just  what  it  is,  but  to  me  your 
husband  seems  like  an  echo  of  something,  an  incar 
nation  of  some  memory  of  my  youth  —  perhaps 
only  a  long-forgotten  dream.  But  it  persists  —  it 
persists.  I  can't  seem  to  lose  it." 

"How  very  curious." 

"It  is  the  kind  of  personality  one  isn't  likely  to 
forget.  Has  he  any  memory  of  his  father  or  — 
of  his  mother?" 

"No.  His  mother  died  when  he  was  born.  His 
father  —  he  doesn't  remember  his  father  at  all." 

Mrs.  Rumsen  smiled.  "Forgive  me,  won't  you? 
I  suppose  you'll  think  me  a  meddlesome  old  busy 
body.  But  I'm  not,  really.  I  want  to  be  friendly. 

162 


TEA  CUPS  AND  MUSIC 


You're  a  stranger  in  New  York,  and  it  occurred  to 
me  that  perhaps  you  might  crave  a  little  mothering 
once  in  a  while.  It  is  so  easy  to  make  mistakes 
here,  and  there  are  so  many  people  who  are  willing 
to  take  advantage  of  them." 

"You're  very  kind,  Mrs.  Rumsen.  I'm  glad 
you  think  us  worth  while." 

"I  do.  So  much  worth  while  that  I  want  to  lay 
particular  stress  upon  it.  Perhaps  I  ought  to  tell 
you  what  I  mean.  Last  night  my  brother  dined  with 
us.  He  was  in  a  very  disagreeable  mood  —  and 
spoke  very  bitterly  of  your  husband.  I  suppose  he 
may  even  go  so  far  as  to  carry  his  business  antag 
onism  into  his  social  relations  with  you  both." 

"How  very  unfortunate!"  in  genuine  dismay. 

"That  is  his  way.  He's  rather  used  to  lording 
it  over  people  here.  And  people  stand  it  just  be 
cause  he's  Cornelius  Bent.  I  suppose  Mr.  Wray 
knows  what  he  is  about.  At  any  rate,  I  honor  him 
for  his  independence.  I  told  my  brother  so  —  and 
we're  not  on  speaking  terms." 

As  Camilla  protested  she  laughed.  "Oh,  don't 
be  alarmed,  dear;  we  have  been  that  way  most  of 
our  lives.  You  see  we're  really  very  much  alike. 
But  I  wanted  you  to  understand  that  my  brother's 
attitude,  whatever  it  is,  will  make  no  possible  dif 
ference  to  me." 

"I  shouldn't  dare  to  be  a  cause  of  any  disagree 
ment " 

"Not  a  word,  child.  I'm  not  going  to  permit 
Wall  Street  to  tell  me  who  my  friends  shall  be. 

163 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


There  is  too  much  politics  in  society  already.  That 
is  why  I  want  you  to  dine  with  me  before  my  ball, 
and  receive  with  me  afterward,  if  you  will." 

Camilla's  eyes  brightened  with  pleasure.  "Of 
course,  I'm  very  much  honored,  Mrs.  Rumsen.  I 
will  come  gladly,  if  you  don't  think  I'll  add  fuel 
to  the  flame." 

"I  don't  really  care.     Why  should  you?" 

"There  are  reasons.  The  General  was  most  kind 
to  us  both " 

"Because  he  had  something  to  get  out  of  you," 
she  sniffed.  "I  could  have  told  you  that  before." 

"But  it  was  through  General  Bent  that  we  met 
everybody  —  people  who  have  entertained  us  — the 
Janneys,  the  Mclntyres,  and  yourself,  Mrs.  Rumsen." 

"He  was  the  ill-wind  that  blew  us  the  good," 
she  finished  graciously.  "Say  no  more  about  it. 
I  have  a  great  many  friends  in  New  York,  my  child 
—  some  who  are  not  stockholders  in  the  Amalga 
mated  Reduction  Company." 

***** 

In  another  corner  of  the  studio — a  dark  one  behind 
a  screen — Miss  Janney  had  impounded  Larry  Berkely. 

"Have  you  seen  'Man  and  Super-man'?"  she  was 
asking. 

"I've  read  it." 

"Well,  do  you  believe  in  it?  Don't  you  think  it 
breeds  a  false  philosophy?  Can  you  imagine  a 
girl  so  brazen  as  to  pursue  a  man  whether  he  wanted 
her  or  not?" 

"No.     It  was  very  un-human,"  said  Larry. 
164 


TEA  CUPS  AND  MUSIC 


"Or  a  man  so  helpless,  saying  such  dreadful  things 
—  thinking  such  dreadful  things  about  a  girl  and 
then  marrying  her?" 

"It  was  absurd  —  quite  ridiculous  in  fact.  No 
one  ever  meets  that  kind  of  people  in  real  life.  I 
never  could  stand  a  girl  of  that  sort." 

"Oh,  I'm  so  glad  you  agree  with  me.  Do  7ou 
know,  Larry,  I  really  believe  that  you  and  I  have 
exactly  the  same  way  of  thinking  about  most 
things.  It's  really  remarkable.  I'm  so  glad.  It's 
a  great  comfort  to  me,  too,  because  ever  since  I 
first  met  you  I  hoped  we'd  learn  to  understand 
each  other  better." 

"How  curious!  I've  been  hoping  the  same  sort 
of  thing  —  fearing  it,  too,"  he  added  dolefully. 

"Fearing  it?  What  do  you  mean?  Tell  me  at  once." 

"Oh,  nothing,"  he  murmured. 

"I  insist  on  knowing." 

"I  wanted  you  to  like  me  —  and  yet  I  dreaded 
it,  too." 

"Don't  say  that  again,"  she  whispered.  "I  can't 
stand  it,  Larry.  I  do  care  for  you  —  more  and 
more  every  time  I  see  you.  But  it  makes  me  terri 
bly  unhappy  to  feel  that  anything  is  bothering  you." 

"It  needn't  bother  you." 

"Yes,  it  does  —  if  it  makes  you  miserable.  What 
is  it?  Won't  you  tell  me?" 

"I  —  I  don't  think  we  ought  to  be  too  friendly." 

"Why  not?"  in  surprise. 

"Because  it  wouldn't  be  good  for  you  —  for  either 
of  us." 

165 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


"That's  no  answer  at  all.  I  refuse  to  listen. 
What  do  I  mind  if  it's  good  for  me  or  not  —  if  I 
care  for  you  enough  to  —  to  —  what  is  it,  Larry? 
Answer  me." 

"Well,  you  know  I'm  all  right  now,  but  when 
I  went  West  my  bellows  —  my  breathing  appara 
tus  —  oh,  hang  it  all !  The  reason  I  went  West 
was  on  account  of  my  health.  My  lungs,  you 
know " 

"You  silly  boy.  I've  known  that  for  ever  so  long. 
That's  one  of  the  reasons  why  I  fell  in  love  with " 

She  stopped,  the  color  suddenly  rushing  to  her 
cheeks  as  she  realized  what  she  had  been  saying. 
But  Larry's  fingers  had  found  hers  in  the  corner, 
and  she  looked  up  into  his  eyes  and  went  on  reso 
lutely.  "I  do  love  you,  Larry.  I  think  I  always 
have.  Are  you  glad?" 

Then  Larry  kissed  her. 

***** 

On  the  other  side  of  the  screen,  to  her  own  accom 
paniment  on  the  piano,  the  Baroness  Charny  began 
singing: 

"  Tes  doux  baisers  sont  des  oiseaux 
Qui  voltigent  fous  sur  mes  levres, 
Us  y  versent  1'oubli  des  fievres 
Tes  doux  baisers  sont  des  oiseaux, 
Aussi  legers  que  des  roseaux, 
Foules  par  les  pieds  blancs  des  chevres 
Tes  doux  baisers  sont  des  oiseaux 
Qui  voltigent  fous,  sur  mes  levres." 

Amid  the  chorus  of  approval,  as  the  Baroness 
paused,  a  thin  little  lisping  voice  was  heard. 

"Oh,    how    too    utterly    thweetly    exthquithite! 
166 


TEA  CUPS  AND  MUSIC 


I  never  thought  of  kitheth  being  like  the  flight  of 
little  birdth.  Are  they,  Mr.  Bent?  I  thought 
they  lathted  longer." 

Bent  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  laughed.  "How 
should  I  know,  Miss  Champney?  Fve  never  been 
married." 

"Married?  How  thilly!  Of  courthe  not!  It 
would  be  thtupid  to  kith  then  —  tho  unneth-eth  — 
unneth-eth  —  oh,  you  know  what  I  mean,  don't 
you?" 

"I'm  afraid  I  don't.  I'd  be  tempted  not  to  under 
stand,  just  to  hear  you  say  'unnecessary'  again." 

"Now  you're  making  fun  of  me.  You're  per 
fectly  horrid.  Itiin't  he,  Mr.  Perot?" 

"He's  a  brute,  Miss  Champney  —  an  utter  brute; 
that's  because  he's  never  been  kissed." 

"Oh,  how  very  interethting!  Haven't  you  really, 
Mr.  Bent?  Oh,  you're  really  quite  hopeleth." 

Mrs.  Cheyne  sipped  her  tea  quite  fastidiously 
and  listened,  bored  to  the  point  of  extinction.  Nor 
did  her  expression  change  when,  some  moments 
later,  Jen7  Wray  was  announced.  Camilla's  face  was 
the  only  one  in  the  room  which  showed  surprise. 
She  had  not  seen  her  husband  for  several  days, 
and  she  noticed,  as  he  came  over  and  spoke  to  Mrs. 
Rumsen,  that  he  looked  more  than  ordinarily  tired 
and  worried.  With  Camilla  he  exchanged  a  careless 
greeting  and  then  passed  her  on  his  way  to  the 
others.  The  servant  brought  the  decanter  and 
soda  bottle,  and  he  sank  on  the  divan  by  the  side  of 
Rita  Cheyne.  It  surprised  him  a  little  when  she 

167 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


began  talking  quite  through  him  to  their  host  and 
the  Baroness,  whom  they  were  asking  to  sing  again. 
It  was  a  Chanson  Galante  of  Bemberg 

"A  la  cour 

A  la  cour 
Aimer  est  un  badinage 

Et  1'amour 

Et  1'amour 
N'est  dangereux  qu'au  village 

Un  berger 

Un  berger 
Si  la  bergere  n'est  tendre 

Sait  se  prendre 

Sait  se  prendre 
Mais  il  ne  saurait  changer. 
Et  parmi  nous  quand  les  belles 
Sont  legeres  ou  cruelles, 
Loin  d'en  mourir  de  depit 
On  en  rit,  on  en  rit, 
Et  Ton  change  aussi-tot  qu'elles." 

Jeff  listened  composedly  and  joined  perfunctorily 
in  the  applause.  Rita  Cheyne  laughed. 

"Charming,  Baroness.  I'm  so  in  sympathy  with 
the  sentiment,  too.  It's  delightfully  French." 

"What  is  the  sentiment?"  asked  Jeff  vaguely 
of  any  one. 

Mrs.  Cheyne  undertook  to  explain. 

"That  love  is  only  dangerous  to  the  villager, 
Mr.  Wray.  In  the  city  it's  a  joke  —  it  amuses  and 
helps  to  pass  the  time." 

"Oh!"  said  Jeff,  subsiding,  conscious  that  the 
question  and  reply  had  been  given  for  the  benefit 
of  the  entire  company. 

"Rather  dainty  rubbish,  I  should  say,"  said  Perot, 
with  a  sense  of  saving  a  situation  (and  a  client). 

168 


TEA  CUPS  AND  MUSIC 


"Love  is  less  majestic  in  the  village  —  that's  all, 
but  perhaps  a  little  sweeter.  Ah,  Baroness!" — 
he  sighed  tumultuously — "Why  should  you  recall 
—  these  memories?" 

The  conversation  became  general  again,  and  Wray 
finished  his  glass  and  set  it  down  on  the  edge  of  the 
transom. 

"What  is  the  matter,  Mrs.  Cheyne?"  he  asked. 
"Aren't  you  glad  to  see  me?" 

"Why  should  I  be?  "coolly. 

"I  don't  know.  I  thought  you  might  be.  I 
stopped  at  your  house.  They  told  me  you  were 
here,  so  I  came  right  down." 

"You're  very  kind  —  but  I  didn't  leave  any 
instructions." 

"No,  but  they  told  me.     I  wanted  to  see  you." 

"You  didn't  want  to  see  me  the  other  night." 

"I  couldn't  — I  'phoned  you." 

"Don't  you  think  it  would  have  been  in  better 
taste  if  you  had  come  yourself?" 

"I  left  in  the  morning  for  Washington.  I've  just 
returned.  I'm  sorry  you  didn't  understand." 

"I  did.  You  had  other  fish  to  fry.  Did  you 
know  I  came  all  the  way  in  from  the  country  to 
see  you?  No  woman  cares  to  throw  herself  at  the 
head  of  a  man.  Personally  I  prefer  an  insult  to  a 
slight,  Mr.  Wray." 

"Good  Lord!  I  hope  you  don't  think  I  could  do 
that.  I  certainly  have  never  showed  you  anything 
but  friendship.  I've  been  worried  over  —  over 
business  matters." 

12  169 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


"That's  a  man's  excuse.  It  lacks  originality.  I'm 
not  accustomed  to  rebuffs,  Mr.  Wray.  I  made  the 
mistake  of  showing  that  I  liked  you.  That's  always 
fatal,  I  thought  you  were  different.  I  know  better 
now.  There's  no  depth  too  great  for  the  woman  who 
cheapens  herself  —  I'm  glad  I  learned  that  in  time." 

"  Don't  talk  like  that.  I  tell  you  I've  been  away," 
he  protested. 

"Really!     Why  didn't  you  write  to  me  then?" 

"Write?" 

"Or  send  me  some  roses?" 

"I'll  send  you  a  wagon-load." 

"It's  too  late,"  she  sighed.  "It  was  the  thought 
I  wanted." 

Wray  rubbed  his  chin  pensively.  It  occurred  to 
him  that  there  were  still  many  things  with  which 
he  was  unfamiliar. 

"I  did  think  of  you." 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  me  so  then?" 

"I'm  telling  you  now." 

She  leaned  toward  him  with  a  familiar  gesture  of 
renewed  confidences. 

"There  are  a  thousand  ways  of  telling  a  woman 
you're  thinking  of  her,  Mr.  Wray.  The  only  way 
not  to  tell  her  is  to  say  that  you  are.  What  a  man 
says  is  obvious  and  unimportant.  A  woman  always 
judges  a  man  by  the  things  that  he  ought  to  have 
done  —  and  the  things  he  ought  not  to  have  done." 

"I  don't  suppose  I'll  ever  learn " 

"Not  unless  some  woman  teaches  you." 

"Won't  you  try  me  again?" 

170 


TEA  CUPS  AND  MUSIC 


"I'll  think  about  it."  And  then  with  one  of  her 
sudden  transitions,  she  added  in  a  lower  tone,  "I 
am  at  home  to-night.  It  is  your  last  chance  to 
redeem  yourself." 

"I'll  take  it.     I  can't  lose  you,  Mrs.  Cheyne." 

"No  —  not  if  I  can  help  it,"  she  whispered. 

A  general  movement  among  Perot's  visitors 
brought  the  conversation  to  a  pause.  Mrs.  Rumsen, 
after  a  final  word  with  Camilla,  departed  with  her 
small  brood.  Cortland  Bent,  with  a  mischievous 
intention  of  supplying  evidence  of  the  inefficacy  of 
the  parental  will,  removed  one  wing  of  the  screen 
which  sheltered  Berkely  and  his  own  ex-fiancee. 
But  Miss  Janney  was  not  in  the  least  disconcerted, 
only  turning  her  head  over  her  shoulder  to  throw 
at  him: 

"Please  go  away,  Cort.     I'm  extremely  busy." 

Camilla  smiled,  but  was  serious  again  when  Bent 
whispered  at  her  ear,  "My  refuge!"  he  said.  "  Yours 
is  yonder." 

She  followed  his  glance  toward  Wray  and  Rita 
Cheyne,  who  were  so  wrapped  in  each  other's  con 
versation  that  they  were  unconscious  of  what  went 
on  around  them. 

"Come,"  said  Camilla,  her  head  in  the  air,  "let 
us  go." 


CHAPTER  XIII 

GOOD    FISHING 

A  CLOCK  struck  the  hour  of  nine.  Mrs. 
Cheyne  lowered  the  volume  of  Shaw's 
plays,  the  pages  of  which  she  had  made  a 
pretence  of  reading,  and  frowned  at  the  corner  of 
the  rug.  She  now  wore  a  house  gown  of  clinging 
material  whose  colors  changed  from  bronze  to  pur 
ple  in  the  shadow  of  the  lamps.  It  fitted  her 
slim  figure  closely  like  chain-mail  and  shimmered 
softly  like  the  skin  of  a  dusky  chameleon.  Mrs. 
Cheyne  was  fond  of  uncertain  colors  in  a  low  key, 
and  her  hour  was  in  the  dim  of  twilight,  which  lent 
illusions,  stimulated  the  imagination  to  a  percep 
tion  of  the  meaning  of  shadows  —  softened  shadows 
which  hung  around  her  eyes  and  mouth,  which  by 
day  were  merely  lines  —  a  little  bitter,  a  little 
hard,  a  little  cynical.  Mrs.  Cheyne's  effects  were 
all  planned  with  exquisite  care;  the  amber-colored 
shades,  the  warmish  rug  and  scarlet  table  cover, 
the  Chinese  mandarin's  robe  on  her  piano,  the 
azaleas  in  the  yellow  pots,  all  were  a  part  of  a 
color  scheme  upon  which  she  had  spent  much 
thought.  Her  great  wealth  had  not  spoiled  her 
taste  for  simplicity.  The  objects  upon  her  table 
and  mantel- shelf  were  few  but  choice,  and  their 

172 


GOOD  FISHING 


arrangement,  each  with  reference  to  the  other, 
showed  an  artistry  which  had  learned  something 
from  Japan.  She  hated  ugliness.  Beauty  was 
her  fetich.  The  one  great  sorrow  of  her  life  was  the 
knowledge  that  her  own  face  was  merely  pretty; 
but  the  slight  irregularity  of  her  features  somewhat 
condoned  for  this  misfortune,  and  she  had  at  last 
succeeded  in  convincing  herself  that  the  essence 
of  beauty  lies  rather  in  what  it  suggests  than  in 
what  it  reveals.  Nature,  by  way  of  atoning  for 
not  making  each  feature  perfect,  had  endowed  them 
all  with  a  kind  of  Protean  mobility,  and  her  mind 
with  a  genius  for  suggestion,  which  she  had  brought 
to  a  high  degree  of  usefulness.  Without,  there 
fore,  being  beautiful  at  all,  she  gave  the  impression 
of  beauty,  and  she  rejoiced  in  the  reputation  which 
she  possessed  of  being  marked  "Dangerous." 

She  had  rejoiced  in  it,  moreover,  because  she 
had  been  aware  that,  no  matter  how  dangerous  she 
might  prove  to  be  with  others,  with  herself  she  had 
not  been  dangerous.  The  kind  of  romance,  the 
kind  of  sentiment,  in  which  she  indulged  she  had 
come  to  regard  as  highly  specialized  art  in  which 
she  was  Past  Grand  Mistress.  She  loved  them  for 
their  own  sake.  She  was  a  fisher  of  men,  but 
fished  only  for  the  love  of  fishing,  and  it  was  her 
pleasure  while  her  victims  still  writhed  to  unhook 
them  as  tenderly  as  might  be  and  let  them  flap 
ungracefully  back  into  their  own  element.  Her 
fly-book  was  a  curiosity  and  of  infinite  variety. 
Izaak  Walton  advances  the  suggestion  that  trout 

173 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


bite  "not  for  hunger,  but  wantonness."  Rita 
Cheyne  was  of  the  opinion  that  men  bit  for  a  simi 
lar  reason;  and  so  she  whipped  the  social  streams 
ruthlessly  for  the  mere  joy  of  the  game,  matching 
her  skill  to  the  indifference  of  her  quarry,  her  artistry 
to  their  vehemence. 

And  now  she  suddenly  discovered  that  she  must 
throw  her  fly-book  away  —  she  had  tried  them 
all  — the  "silver-doctor,"  the  "white  moth,"  the 
"brown  hackle"  —  and  all  to  no  purpose.  Her 
fish  had  risen,  but  he  would  not  bite.  She  was  fish 
ing  in  unfamiliar  waters,  deeper  waters,  where  there 
were  hidden  currents  she  could  not  understand. 
The  tackle  she  had  used  when  fishing  for  others 
would  not  serve  for  Jeff  Wray. 

It  provoked  her  that  her  subtlety  was  of  no  avail, 
for  she  had  the  true  fisher's  contempt  for  heavy 
tackle.  And  yet  she  realized  that  it  was  only 
heavy  tackle  which  would  land  him.  He  was  the 
only  man  who  had  really  interested  her  in  years, 
and  his  conquest  was  a  matter  of  pride  with  her. 
She  had  other  reasons,  too.  His  wife  was  beautiful. 
Rita  Cheyne  was  merely  artistic.  Victory  meant 
that  Beauty  was  only  an  incident  —  that  Art,  after 
all,  was  immortal.  The  theory  of  a  whole  life 
time  needed  vindication. 

When  Wray  entered  she  was  deep  in  "You 
Never  Can  Tell,"  but  looked  up  at  her  visitor 
slowly  and  extended  a  languid  hand. 

"Aren't  you  early?"  she  asked,  slipping  a  marker 
in  the  pages  of  her  book  and  closing  it  slowly. 

174 


GOOD  FISHING 


"No,  I  don't  think  so.  I  thought  I  was  late. 
I  was  detained." 

She  held  up  a  hand  in  protest. 

"I  was  really  hoping  you  might  not  come.  I've 
been  really  so  amused  —  and  when  one  is  really 
amused  nowadays  one  should  expect  nothing  more 
of  the  gods." 

Wray  got  up  hurriedly.  "I  won't  'butt  in' 
then.  I  don't  want  to  disturb ' 

"Oh,  sit  down  —  do.  You  make  me  nervous. 
Have  a  cigarette  —  I'll  take  one,  too.  Now  tell 
me  what  on  earth  is  the  matter  with  you." 

"The  matter?     Nothing.     I'm  all  right." 

"You've  changed  somehow.  When  I  met  you 
at  the  Bents'  I  thought  you  the  most  wonderful 
person  I  had  ever  met  —  with  great  —  very  great 
possibilities.  Even  at  the  Janneys'  the  illusion  still 
remained.  Something  has  happened  to  change 
you.  You  do  nothing  but  scowl  and  say  the  wrong 
thing.  There's  no  excuse  for  any  man  to  do  that." 

"I'm  worried.  There's  been  a  slight  tangle  in 
my  plans.  I  —  but  I'm  not  going  to  trouble 
you  with " 

"I  want  to  hear  —  of  course.  You  went  to 
Washington?" 

"Yes  —  to  see  some  of  our  congressmen.  I  have 
the  law  on  my  side  in  this  fight,  and  I'm  trying  to 
make  things  copperlined  —  so  there  can't  be  a 
leak  anywhere.  Those  fellows  down  there  are 
afraid  of  their  own  lives.  They  act  as  though  they 
were  on  the  lookout  for  somebody  to  stab  them  in 

175 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


the  back.  Washington  is  too  near  New  York. 
A  fellow  goes  there  from  the  West  and  in  about  six 
months  he's  a  changed  man.  He  forgets  that  he 
ever  came  from  God's  country,  and  learns  to  bow 
and  scrape  and  lick  boots.  I  reckon  that's  the 
way  to  get  what  you  want  here  in  the  East  —  but 
it  goes  against  my  grain." 

"Weren't  you  successful?" 

"Oh,  yes,  I  found  out  what  I  wanted  to  know. 
It's  only  a  question  of  money.  They'll  fall  in  line 
when  I'm  ready.  But  it's  going  to  take  cash  — 
more  than  I  thought  it  would." 

"Are  you  going  to  have  enough?" 

"My  credit's  good,  and  I'm  paying  eight  per 
cent." 

"Eight?     Why,  I  only  get  four!" 

"I  know.  Eight  is  the  legal  rate  in  my  state. 
Business  is  done  on  that  basis." 

"  I  wish  I  could  help.  You  know  I'm  horribly  rich. 
I'd  like  to  look  into  the  matter.  Will  you  let  me?" 

"Yes,  but  there's  a  risk  —  you  see,  I'm  honest 
with  you.  I'll  give  stock  as  security  and  a  share 
in  the  profits  —  but  my  stock  isn't  exactly  like 
government  bonds.  Who  is  your  lawyer?  I'll 
put  it  up  to  him  if  you  like." 

"Stephen  Gillis.     But  he'll  do  what  I  say." 

"I'd  rather  you  consulted  him." 

"Oh,  yes,  I  shall.  But  I  have  faith  in  you,  Jeff 
Wray.  It  seems  like  a  good  speculation.  I'd 
like  you  to  send  me  all  the  data.  I'll  really  look 
into  it  seriously."  She  stopped  and  examined 

176 


GOOD  FISHING 


his  face  in  some  concern.  In  the  lamplight  she 
saw  the  lines  that  worry  had  drawn  there.  "But 
not  to-night.  You've  had  enough  of  business. 
You're  tired  —  in  your  mind"  —  she  paused  again 
that  he  might  the  better  understand  her  meaning  — 
"but  you're  more  tired  in  your  heart.  Business 
is  the  least  of  your  worries.  Am  I  right?" 

"Yes,"  he  said  sullenly. 

"I'm  very  sorry.  Is  there  any  way  in  which  I 
can  help?" 

"No." 

The  decision  in  his  tone  was  not  encouraging, 
but  she  persevered. 

"You  don't  want  help?" 

"It  isn't  a  matter  I  can  speak  about." 

"Oh!" 

Her  big  fish  was  sulking  in  the  deeps?  It  was  a 
case  for  shark-bait  and  a  "dipsy"  lead. 

"You  won't  tell  me?  Very  well.  Frankness  is 
a  privilege  of  friendship.  I'll  use  it.  Your  wife 
is  in  love  with  my  cousin  Cortland." 

Wray   started   violently. 

"How  do  you  know?" 

She  smiled.  "Oh,  I  don't  know.  I  guessed. 
It's  true,  though."  She  paused  and  examined  him 
curiously.  He  had  subsided  in  his  chair,  his  head 
on  his  breast,  his  brows  lowering. 

"Are  you  unhappy?"  she  asked. 

"No,"  he  muttered  at  last.  "It's  time  we  under 
stood  each  other." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  about  it?" 
177 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


"Do?  Nothing,"  he  said  with  a  short  laugh. 
"There's  nothing  to  do.  I'm  a  good  deal  of  a  fool, 
but  I  know  that  putting  trouble  in  a  woman's  way 
never  made  her  quit  going  after  what  she'd  set  her 
mind  on.  If  I  licked  Cort  Bent  she'd  make  me 
out  a  brute;  if  I  shot  him,  she'd  make  him  out  a 
martyr.  Any  way,  I'm  a  loser.  I'm  going  my 

own  way  and  she "     He  got  up  and  strode  the 

length  of  the  room  and  back,  and  then  spoke  con 
strainedly:  "I'm  not  going  to  speak  of  this  matter 
to  you  or  to  any  one  else." 

He  dropped  into  his  chair  beside  her  again  and 
glared  at  the  window  curtain.  Mrs.  Cheyne  leaned 
one  elbow  on  the  arm  of  her  chair  which  was  nearest 
him  and  sighed  deeply. 

"Why  is  it  that  we  always  marry  the  wrong 
people?  If  life  wasn't  so  much  of  a  joke,  I'd  be 
tempted  to  cry  over  the  fallibility  of  human  nature. 
The  love  of  one's  teens  is  the  only  love  that  is 
undiluted  with  other  motives  —  the  only  love 
that's  really  what  love  was  meant  to  be.  It's  per 
fectly  heavenly,  but  of  course  it's  entirely  unprac 
tical.  Marrying  one's  first  love  is  iconoclasm  — 
it's  a  sacrilege  —  a  profanation  —  and  ought  to  be 
prohibited  by  law.  First  love  was  meant  for 
memory  only  —  to  sweeten  other  memories  later 
on  —  but  it  was  never  meant  for  domestication. 
Rose  petals  amid  cabbage  leaves!  Incense  amid 
the  smells  of  an  apartment  kitchen!" 

She  sank  back  in  her  chair  again  and  mused 
dreamily,  her  eyes  on  the  open  fire. 

178 


"  She  did  not  struggle  or  resist.      It   seemed   impossible    to 

do  so." 


GOOD  FISHING 


"It's  a  pretty  madness,"  she  sighed.  "Romance 
thrives  on  unrealities.  What  has  it  in  common 
with  the  butcher?  You  know"  —  she  paused  and 
gave  a  quick  little  laugh —  "you  know,  Cheyne 
and  I  fell  in  love  at  first  sight.  He  was  an  adorable 
boy  and  he  made  love  like  an  angel.  He  had  a  lot 
of  money,  too  —  almost  as  much  as  I  had  —  but  he 
didn't  let  that  spoil  him  —  not  then.  He  used  to 
work  quite  hard  before  we  were  married,  and  was 
really  a  useful  citizen. 

"Matrimony  ruined  him.  It  does  some  men. 
He  got  to  be  so  comfortable  and  contented  in  his 
new  condition  that  he  forgot  that  there  was  any 
thing  else  in  the  world  but  comfort  and  content  — 
even  me.  He  began  to  get  fat  and  bald.  Don't 
you  hate  bald-headed  men  with  beards?  He  was 
so  sleek,  shiny,  and  respectable  that  he  got  on  my 
nerves.  He  didn't  want  to  go  anywhere  but  to 
symphony  concerts  and  the  opera.  Sometimes 
he  played  quite  dolefully  on  the  'cello  —  even 
insisted  on  doing  so  when  we  had  people  in  to  dinner. 
It  was  really  very  inconsiderate  of  him  when  every 
one  wanted  to  be  jolly.  He  began  making  a  col 
lection  of  'cellos,  too,  which  stood  around  the  walls 
of  the  music  room  in  black  cases  like  coffins.  Im 
agine  a  taste  like  that!  The  thing  I  had  once  mis 
taken  for  poetry,  for  sentiment,  had  degenerated 
into  a  kind  of  flabby  sentimentality  which  extended 
to  all  of  the  commonplaces  of  existence.  I  found 
that  it  wasn't  really  me  that  he  loved  at  all.  It 
was  love  that  he  loved.  I  had  made  a  similar  mis- 

179 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


take.     We  discovered  it  quite  casually  one  evening 
after  dinner." 

She  broke  off  with  a  sigh.  "What's  the  use?  I 
suppose  you'll  think  I'm  selfish  —  talking  of  myself. 
Mine  is  an  old  story.  Time  has  mellowed  it  agree 
ably.  Yours  is  newer " 

"I'm  very  sorry  for  you.  But  you  know  that 
I'm  sorry.  I've  told  you  so  before.  I  think  I 
understand  you  better  now." 

"And  I  you,"  and  then  softly,  "Mrs.  Wray  was 
your  first  love?" 

"No,"  he  muttered,  "she  was  my  last." 

Mrs.  Cheyne's  lids  dropped,  and  she  looked 
away  from  him.  Had  Wray  been  watching  her  he 
would  have  discovered  that  the  ends  of  her  lips  were 
flickering  on  the  verge  of  a  smile,  but  Wray's  gaze 
was  on  the  andirons. 

They  sat  there  in  silence  for  some  moments,  but 
Wray,  who  first  spoke,  restored  her  self-complacency. 

"You're  very  kind  to  me,"  he  said  slowly.  "You 
say  you  like  me  because  I'm  different  from  other 
fellows  here.  I  suppose  I  am.  I  was  born  different 
and  I  guess  I  grew  up  different.  If  you  think  I'm 
worth  while,  then  I'm  glad  I  grew  up  the  way  I 
did."  He  got  up  and  walked  slowly  the  length  of 
the  room.  She  watched  him  doubtfully,  wondering 
what  was  passing  in  his  mind.  She  learned  in  a 
moment;  for  when  he  approached  her  again  he 
leaned  over  her  chair  and,  without  the  slightest 
warning,  had  put  his  arms  around  her  and  kissed 
her  again  and  again  on  the  lips. 

180 


GOOD  FISHING 


She  did  not  struggle  or  resist.  It  seemed  im 
possible  to  do  so,  and  she  was  too  bewildered  for 
a  moment  to  do  anything  but  sit  and  stare  blankly 
before  her.  He  was  a  strange  fish  —  a  most  ex 
traordinary  fish  which  rose  only  when  one  had 
stopped  fishing.  It  was  the  way  he  did  it  that 
appalled  her  —  he  was  so  brutal,  so  cold-blooded. 

When  he  released  her  she  rose  abruptly,  her  face 
pale  and  her  lips  trembling. 

"How  could  you?"  she  said.  "How  could  you?" 
And  then,  with  more  composure,  she  turned  and 
pointed  toward  the  door. 

"I  wish  you'd  please  go  —  at  once." 

But  as  he  stood  staring  at  her  she  was  obliged  to 
repeat:  "Don't  you  hear  me?  I  want  you  to  go 
and  not  to  come  back.  Isn't  that  plain?  Or  would 
you  prefer  to  have  me  ring  for  a  servant?" 

"No,  I  don't  prefer  either,"  he  said  with  a  smile; 
"I  don't  want  to  go.  I  want  to  stay  here  with  you. 
That's  what  I  came  for." 

She  walked  over  to  the  door  and  stood  by  the 
bell.  "Do  you  wish  me  to  ring?" 

"Of  course  not." 

"Will  you  go?" 

"No." 

She  raised  her  hand  toward  the  bell,  but  halted 
it  in  midair.  Wray  noticed  her  hesitation. 

"Wait  a  moment.  Don't  be  foolish,  Rita.  I 
have  something  to  say  to  you.  It  wouldn't  reflect 
much  credit  on  either  of  us  for  you  to  send  me  out. 
I  thought  we  understood  each  other.  I'm  sorry. 

181 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


You  said  once  that  you  liked  me  because  I  was 
plain-spoken  and  because  I  said  and  did  just  what 
came  into  my  head,  but  you  haven't  been  fair 
with  me." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"Just  this:  You  and  I  were  to  speak  to  each 
other  freely  of  ourselves  and  of  each  other.  You 
said  you  needed  me,  and  I  knew  I  needed  you. 
We  decided  it  was  good  to  be  friends.  That  was 
our  agreement.  You  broke  it  wilfully.  You  have 
I  acted  with  me  precisely  as  you  have  acted  with  a 
dozen  other  men.  It  was  lucky  I  discovered  my 
(  danger  in  time.  I  don't  think  any  woman  in  the 
world  could  do  as  much  with  me  as  you  could  — 
if  you  wanted  to.  When  I  like  anybody  I  try  to 
show  them  that  I  do.  If  you  were  a  man  I'd  give 
you  my  hand,  or  loan  you  money,  or  help  you  in 
business.  I  can't  do  that  with  you.  You're  a 
woman  and  meant  to  be  kissed.  So  I  kissed 
you." 

She  dropped  her  hands.     "Yes,  you  kissed  me, 

brutally,  shamelessly " 

"Shamelessly?" 

\      "You've  insulted  me.       I'll  never  forgive  you.  j 

I  Don't  you  think   a   woman   can  tell?     There   are  *> 

!  other  ways  of  judging  a  man.     I've  interested  you, 

yes,  because  you've  never  known  any  real  woman 

before,"     contemptuously.        "I     suppose    you're 

interested  still.     You  ought  to  be.     But  you  can 

never  care  for  any  woman  until  you  forget  to  be 

interested  in  yourself.     For  you  the  sun  rises  and 

182 


GOOD  FISHING 


sets  in  Jeff  Wray,  and  you  want  other  people  to 
think  so,  too." 

"I'm  sorry  you  think  so  badly  of  me." 

"Oh,  no,  I  don't  think  badly  of  you.  From  the 
present  moment  I  sha'n't  think  of  you  at  all.  I  — 
I  dislike  you  —  intensely.  I  want  to  be  alone. 
Will  you  please  go?" 

Wray  gave  her  his  blandest  stare,  and  then 
shrugged  his  shoulders  and  turned  toward  the  door. 

"You're  willing  to  have  me  go  like  this?" 

"Yes." 

"I'm  going  West  to-morrow." 

"It  makes  no  difference  to  me  where  you  are 
going." 

"Won't  you  forgive  me?" 

"No." 

As  he  passed  her,  he  offered  his  hand  in  one  last 
appeal,  but  she  turned  away  from  him,  her  hands 
behind  her,  and  in  a  moment  he  was  gone. 

Rita  Cheyne  heard  the  hall  door  close  behind 
him  and  then  sank  into  the  chair  before  the  open 
fire,  her  eyes  staring  before  her  at  the  tiny  flame 
which  still  played  fitfully  above  the  gray  log.  Her 
fish  had  risen  at  last  with  such  wanton  viciousness 
that  he  had  taken  hook,  line,  reel,  and  rod.  Only 
her  creel  remained  to  her  —  her  empty  creel. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

FATHER    AND    SON 

FATHER  and  son  had  dined  together  alone, 
and  for  most  of  the  time  in  silence.  Cor 
nelius  Bent  had  brought  his  business  mien 
uptown  with  him,  and  Cortland,  with  a  discretion 
borrowed  of  experience,  made  only  the  most  per 
functory  attempts  at  a  conversation.  Since  the 
"Lone  Tree"  affair  there  had  happened  a  change 
in  their  relations  which  each  of  them  had  come 
to  understand.  Cortland  Bent's  successive  failures 
in  various  employments  had  at  last  convinced  his 
father  that  his  son  was  not  born  of  the  stuff  of 
which  Captains  of  Industry  are  made.  The  loss 
of  the  mine  had  been  the  culminating  stroke  in 
Cortland's  ill-fortune,  and  since  his  return  to  New 
York  he  had  been  aware  of  a  loss  of  caste  in  the 
old  man's  eyes.  General  Bent  had  a  habit  of 
weighing  men  by  their  business  performances  and 
their  utility  in  the  financial  enterprises  which  were 
controlled  from  the  offices  of  Bent  &  Company.  It 
was  not  his  custom  to  make  allowances  for  differ 
ences  in  temperament  in  his  employees,  or  even  to 
consider  their  social  relationships  except  in  so  far 
as  they  contributed  to  his  own  financial  well-being. 
He  had  accustomed  himself  for  many  years  to 

184 


FATHER  AND  SON 


regard  the  men  under  him  as  integral  parts  of  the 
complicated  machinery  of  his  office,  each  with  its 
own  duty,  upon  the  successful  performance  of 
which  the  whole  fabric  depended.  He  had  figured 
the  coefficient  of  human  frailty  to  a  decimal  point, 
and  was  noted  for  the  strength  of  his  business 
organization. 

To  such  a  man  an  only  son  with  incipient  leanings 
toward  literature,  music,  and  the  arts  was  something 
in  the  nature  of  a  reproach  upon  the  father  himself. 
Cort  had  left  college  with  an  appreciation  of  JEs- 
chylus  and  Euripides  and  a  track  record  of  ten- 
seconds  flat.  So  far  as  Bent  Senior  could  see, 
these  accomplishments  were  his  only  equipment 
for  his  eventual  control  of  the  great  business  of  the 
firm  of  which  his  father  was  the  founder.  The 
Greek  poets  were  Greek,  indeed,  to  the  General, 
but  the  track  record  was  less  discouraging,  so  Cort- 
land  began  the  business  of  life  at  twenty-three  as  a 
"runner"  for  the  bank,  rising  in  time  to  the  dignity 
of  a  post  inside  a  brass  cage,  figuring  discounts, 
where  for  a  time  ho  was  singularly  contented, 
following  the  routine  with  a  cheerfulness  born  of 
desperation.  As  assistant  to  the  cashier  he  was  less 
successful,  and  when  his  father  took  him  into  his 
own  office  later  and  made  him  a  seller  of  bonds, 
Cortland  was  quite  sure  that  at  last  he  had  come 
into  his  own.  For  the  selling  of  bonds,  it  seemed, 
required  only  tireless  legs  and  tireless  imagination  — 
both  of  which  he  possessed.  Only  after  a  month  he 
was  convinced  that  bond  sellers  are  born  —  not  made. 
13  185 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


The  General,  still  hoping  against  hope,  had  now 
taken  him  back  into  his  office  on  a  salary  and  an 
interest  in  business  secured,  and  thus  made  his 
son  more  or  less  dependent  upon  his  own  efforts 
for  the  means  to  enjoy  his  leisure.  Father  and  son 
existed  now  as  they  had  always  done,  on  a  basis 
of  mutual  tolerance  —  a  hazardous  relation  which 
often  threatened  to  lead  and  often  did  lead  to  open 
rupture.  To-night  Cortland  was  aware  that  a 
discussion  of  more  than  usual  importance  was  im 
pending,  and,  when  dinner  was  over,  the  General 
ordered  the  coffee  served  in  the  smoking  room, 
the  door  of  which,  after  the  departure  of  the  butler, 
he  firmly  closed. 

General  Bent  lit  his  cigar  with  some  deliberation, 
while  Cortland  watched  him,  studying  the  hard 
familiar  features,  the  aquiline  nose,  the  thin  lips, 
the  deeply  indented  chin,  wondering,  as  he  had 
often  wondered  before,  how  a  father  and  son  could 
be  so  dissimilar.  It  was  a  freak  of  heredity,  Nature's 
little  joke  —  at  Cornelius  Bent's  expense.  The 
General  sank  into  his  armchair,  thoughtfully  con 
templating  his  legs  and  emitting  a  cloud  of  smoke 
as  though  seeking  in  the  common  rite  of  tobacco 
some  ground  of  understanding  between  his  son  and 
himself. 

"I  want  to  speak  to  you  about  the  Wrays,"  he 
said  at  last. 

Cortland's  gaze  found  the  fire  and  remained  on  it. 

"You  are  aware  that  a  situation  has  arisen 
within  the  past  few  weeks  which  has  made  it  im- 

186 


FATHER  AND  SON 


possible  for  Bent  &  Company  or  myself  personally 
to  have  any  further  relations,  either  financial  or 
social,  with  Jeff  Wray?  He  has  taken  a  stand  in 
regard  to  his  holdings  in  Saguache  Valley  which  I 
consider  neither  proper  nor  justifiable.  To  make 
short  of  a  long  matter,  I  thought  it  best  some  weeks 
ago  to  forget  the  matter  of  the  mine  and  make 
Wray  an  offer  for  his  entire  interests  in  the  Saguache 
Valley.  It  was  a  generous  offer,  one  that  no  man 
in  his  position  had  a  right  to  refuse.  But  he  did 
refuse  it  in  such  terms  that  further  negotiations  on 
the  subject  were  impossible. " 

"Yes,  sir,  I  know,"  put  in  his  son. 

"Wray's  rise  is  one  of  those  remarkable  com 
binations  of  luck  and  ability  —  I'll  concede  him 
that  —  which  are  to  be  found  in  every  community 
once  in  a  decade.  From  obscure  beginnings  — 
God  knows  what  the  fellow  sprang  from  —  he  has 
worked  his  way  up  in  a  period  of  three  years  to  a 
position  of  commanding  influence.  He  owns  the 
biggest  independent  smelter  in  the  West  —  built 
it,  we  now  believe,  with  the  intention  of  under 
bidding  the  Amalgamated.  He  has  not  done  so 
yet  because  he  hasn't  been  sure  enough  of  himself. 
But  he's  rapidly  acquiring  a  notion  that  nothing 
Jeff  Wray  can  do  will  fail.  That  is  his  weak  point 
—  as  it  is  with  every  beggar  on  horseback.  You 
are  familiar  with  all  of  these  facts.  You've  had 
some  occasion,"  bitterly,  "to  form  your  own 
judgment  of  the  man.  When  you  came  East  I 
was  under  the  impression  that,  aside  from  busi- 

187 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


ness,  there  were  other  reasons   why  you   disliked 
him." 

"That  is  correct,  sir,"  muttered  Cortland,  "there 


were." 


The  General  eyed  his  son  sharply  before  he  spoke 
again. 

"Am  I  to  understand  that  those  reasons  still 
exist?  Or " 

"One  moment,  sir.  I'd  like  to  know  just  where 
this  conversation  is  drifting.  My  relations  with 
Wray  have  never  been  pleasant.  He  isn't  the  type 
of  man  I've  ever  cared  much  about.  No  conditions 
that  I'm  aware  of  could  ever  make  us  friendly,  and, 
aside  from  his  personality,  which  I  don't  admire,  I'm 
not  likely  to  forget  the '  Lone  Tree '  matter  very  soon." 

"H  — m!  That  still  rankles,  does  it?  It  does 
with  me  —  with  al!  of  us.  Oh,  I'm  not  blaming 
you,  Cort.  If  you  had  been  a  little  sharper  you 
might  have  made  one  last  investigation  before 
you  signed  those  papers.  But  you  didn't,  and 
that's  the  end  of  that  part  of  the  matter.  What  I 
want  to  know  now  is  just  what  your  relations  with 
the  Wray  family  are  at  the  present  moment.  You 
hate  Wray,  and  yet  most  of  your  leisure  moments 
are  spent  in  the  company  of  his  wife.  Am  I  to 
understand ?" 

"Wait  a  moment,  sir "     Cortland  had  risen 

and  moved  uneasily  to  the  fireplace.  "I'd  prefer 
that  Mrs.  Wray's  name  be  kept  out  of  the  discussion. 
I  can't  see  how  my  relations  with  her  can  have  any 

bearing " 

188 


FATHER  AND  SON 


"They  have,"  the  General  interrupted  suavely. 
"If  Mrs.  Wray  is  to  receive  your  confidences  I 
can't  give  you  mine." 

"Thank  you,"  bitterly.  "I  didn't  know  I  had 
ever  done  anything  to  warrant  such  an  attitude 
as  this." 

"  Tut !  tut !  Don't  misunderstand  me.  Whatever 
your  sins,  they've  always  been  those  of  omission. 
I  don't  believe  you'd  betray  me  wilfully.  But  in 
timacies  with  pretty  women  are  dangerous,  espe 
cially  intimacies  with  the  wives  of  one's  financial 
enemies;  unless,  of  course,  there's  some  method 
in  one's  madness." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"I'm  sorry  I  don't  make  my  intention  clear.  If 
your  friendship  with  Mrs.  Wray  can  be  useful  to 
Bent  &  Company  I  see  no  reason  why  it  shouldn't 
continue.  But  if  it  jeopardizes  my  business  plans 
in  any  way,  it's  time  it  stopped.  In  my  office  you 
are  in  a  position  and  will,  I  hope,  in  the  near  future 
be  in  a  further  position  to  learn  all  the  business  plans 
of  the  Amalgamated  and  other  companies.  Of 
course,  I  don't  know  how  far  Mrs.  Wray  enjoys 
the  business  confidences  of  her  husband.  But  it 
is  safe  to  assume  that,  being  a  woman,  she  knows 
much  more  than  her  husband  thinks  she  does.  I 
don't  intend  that  you  should  be  placed  in  an  em 
barrassing  position  with  respect  to  her  or  with 
respect  to  me.  I'm  on  the  point  of  starting  the 
machinery  of  my  office  on  a  big  financial  operation 
for  the  Amalgamated  Reduction  Company  —  the 

189 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


exact  nature  of  which  until  the  present  moment  has 
remained  a  secret.  Your  part  in  this  deal  has  been 
mapped  out  with  some  care,  and  the  responsibilities 
I  have  selected  for  you  should  give  you  a  sense  of 
my  renewed  faith  in  your  capabilities.  But  you 
can't  carry  water  on  both  shoulders " 

"You're  very  flattering,  sir.  I've  never  carried 
much  water  on  either  shoulder;  and  my  relations 
with  Mrs.  Wray  hardly  warrant " 

"I  can't  see  that,"  impatiently.  "You're  so 
often  together  that  people  are  talking  about  you. 
Curtis  Janney  has  spoken  to  me  about  it.  Of 
course,  your  affair  with  Gretchen  is  one  that  you 
must  work  out  for  yourselves,  but  I'll  confess  I'm 
surprised  that  she  stands  for  your  rather  obvious 
attentions  to  a  married  woman." 

Cortland  Bent  smiled  at  the  ash  of  his  cigar.  His 
father  saw  it  and  lost  his  temper. 

"I'm  tired  of  this  shilly-shallying,"  he  snapped. 
"You  seem  to  make  a  practice  in  life  of  skating  along 
the  edge  of  important  issues.  I'm  not  going  to  tol 
erate  it  any  longer,  and  I've  got  to  know  just  where 
you  stand." 

"Well,  dad,"  calmly,  "where  shall  we  begin? 
With  Gretchen?  Very  well.  Gretchen  and  I  have 
decided  that  we're  not  going  to  be  married." 

"What?" 

"We  have  no  intention  of  marrying  next  year  or 
at  any  other  time." 

"Well,  of   all  the !     Curtis   Janney  doesn't 

know  this." 

190 


FATTIER  AND  SON 


"He  should.  Gretchen  is  in  love  with  somebody 
else,  and  I 

"You!  I  understand.  You  are,  too.  You're 
in  love  with  Jeff  Wray's  wife." 

He  paused,  but  his  son  made  no  reply,  though  the 
old  man  watched  his  face  curiously  for  a  sign.  The 
General  knocked  his  cigar-ash  into  the  fire. 

"Is  that  true?" 

"Under  the  circumstances  I  should  prefer  not  to 
discuss  the  matter." 

"Why?  You  and  I  haven't  always  been  in  sym 
pathy,  but  the  fact  remains  that  I'm  your  father." 
The  old  man's  long  fingers  clutched  the  chair  arm, 
and  he  looked  straight  before  him,  speaking  slowly. 
"I  suppose  you've  got  to  have  your  fling.  I  did. 
Every  man  does.  But  you're  almost  old  enough 
to  be  through  that  period  now.  There  was  never 
a  woman  in  the  world  worth  the  pains  and  anxieties 
of  an  affair  of  this  kind.  A  woman  who  plays  loose 
with  one  man  will  do  it  with  another.  The  fashion 
of  making  love  to  other  men's  wives  did  not  exist 
when  I  was  young." 

Cortland  turned  to  the  fire,  his  lips  compressed, 
and  with  the  tongs  replaced  a  fallen  log. 

"When  I  was  young,"  the  old  man  went  on,  "a 
man's  claim  upon  his  wife  was  never  questioned. 
Society  managed  things  better  in  those  days. 
Ostracism  was  the  fate  of  the  careless  woman;  and 
men  of  your  age  who  sought  married  women  by 
preference  were  denied  the  houses  of  the  young 
girls  of  their  own  condition.  If  a  fellow  of  your 

191 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


type  had  oats  to  sow,  he  sowed  them  with  a  decent 
privacy  instead  of  bringing  his  mother,  his  sister, 
into  contact " 

Cortland  straightened  up,  the  tongs  in  his  hand,  his 
face  pale  with  fury,  saying  in  stifled  tones: 

"For  God's  sake,  stop,  or  I'll  strike  you  as  you 
sit." 

The  General  moved  forward  in  his  chair  almost 
imperceptibly,  and  the  cigar  slipped  from  his  fingers 
and  rolled  on  the  hearth.  For  a  long  moment 
the  two  men  looked  into  each  other's  eyes,  the  elder 
conscious  that  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  had 
seen  his  son  really  aroused.  There  was  no  fear 
in  the  father's  look,  only  surprise  and  a  kind  of 
reluctant  admiration  for  a  side  of  Cortland's  char 
acter  he  had  never  seen.  He  sank  back  into  his 
chair  and  looked  into  the  fire. 

"Oh!  "he  muttered. 

"You  had  no  right  to  speak  of  Mrs.  Wray  in 
those  terms,"  said  Cortland,  his  voice  still  quivering. 

"I'm  sorry.     I  did  not  know." 

Cortland  set  down  the  fire  tongs,  his  hands 
trembling,  and  put  both  elbows  on  the  mantel 
shelf. 

"Perhaps,  since  you  know  so  much,"  he  said  in 
a  suppressed  voice,  "I  had  better  add  that  I  would 
have  married  her  if  Wray  hadn't." 

"Really?     You  surprise  me." 

There  was  a  moment  of  silence  which  proved  to 
both  men  the  futility  of  further  discussion. 

"If  you  don't  mind,  I'd  rather  we  didn't  speak 

192 


FATHER  AND  SON 


of  this.  Mrs.  Wray  would  understand  your  view 
point  less  clearly  than  I  do.  She  is  not  familiar 
with  vice,  and  she  does  not  return  my  feeling  for 
her.  If  she  did,  I  should  be  the  last  person  in  the 
world  she  would  see " 

"I  can't  believe  you." 

"It  is  the  truth.  Strange  as  it  may  seem  to  you 
and  to  me,  she  loves  her  husband." 

"She  married  him  for  his  money." 

Cortland  was  silent.  Memory  suddenly  pictured 
the  schoolroom  at  Mesa  City  where  he  had  won 
Camilla  and  lost  her  in  the  same  unfortunate  hour 
—  his  hour  of  mistakes,  spiritual  and  material  — 
a  crucial  hour  in  his  life  which  he  had  met  mistily, 
a  slave  of  the  caste  which  had  bred  him,  a  trifler 
in  the  sight  of  the  only  woman  he  could  love,  just 
as  he  had  been  a  trifler  before  the  world  in  letters 
and  in  business. 

"No,"  he  replied.  "She  did  not  marry  him  for 
money.  She  married  him  —  for  other  reasons. 
She  found  those  reasons  sufficient  then  —  she  finds 
them  sufficient  now."  He  dropped  heavily,  with 
the  air  of  a  broken  man,  into  an  armchair,  and 
put  a  hand  over  his  eyes  as  though  the  light  hurt 
them.  "Don't  try  to  influence  me,  sir.  Let  me 
think  this  out  in  my  own  way.  Perhaps,  after 
what  you've  told  me  about  the  Amalgamated,  I 
ought  to  let  you  know." 

"Speak  to  me  freely,  Cort,"  said  the  old  man 
more  kindly. 

"I  don't  want  you  to  think  of  Camilla  as  the 
193 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


wife  of  Jeff  Wray.  I  want  you  to  think  of  her  as  I 
think  of  her  —  as  herself  —  as  the  girl  I  knew  when 
I  first  went  West,  an  English  garden-rose  growing 
alone  in  the  heart  of  the  desert.  How  she  had 
taken  root  there  Heaven  only  knows,  but  she  had 
—  and  bloomed  more  tenderly  because  of  the  weeds 
that  surrounded  her." 

He  paused  a  moment  and  glanced  at  his  father. 
General  Bent  had  sunk  deep  in  his  chair,  his  shaggy 
brows  hiding  his  deeply  set  eyes,  which  peered  like 
those  of  a  seer  of  visions  into  the  dying  embers  be 
fore  him.  A  spell  seemed  to  have  fallen  over  him. 
Cortland  felt  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  that  there 
was  between  them  now  some  subtle  bond  of  sym 
pathy,  unknown,  undreamed  of,  even.  Encouraged, 
he  went  on. 

"She  was  different  from  the  others.  I  thought 
then  it  was  because  of  the  rough  setting.  I  know 
now  that  it  wasn't.  She  is  the  same  here  that  she 
was  out  there.  I  can't  see  anything  in  any  other 
woman;  I  don't  want  to  see  anything  in  any  other 
woman.  I  couldn't  make  her  out;  it  puzzled  me 
that  I  could  do  nothing  with  her.  After  school 
hours  —  she  was  the  schoolmistress,  you  know, 
sir  —  we  rode  far  up  into  the  mountains.  She  got 
to  be  a  habit  with  me;  then  a  fever.  I  didn't 
know  what  was  the  matter  except  that  I  was  sick 
because  of  the  need  of  her.  I  didn't  think  of 
marriage  then.  She  was  nothing.  Her  father 
kept  a  store  in  Abilene,  Kansas.  I  thought  of  you. 
All  my  inherited  instincts,  my  sense  of  class 

194 


FATHER  AND  SON 


distinction,  of  which  we  people  in  New  York  make 
such  a  fetich,  were  revolted.  But  I  loved  her,  and 
I  told  her  so." 

Cortland  sat  up,  then  leaned  forward,  his  elbows  on 
his  knees,  and  followed  his  father's  gaze  into  the  fire. 

"She  was  too  clean  to  understand  me,  sir.  I 
knew  it  almost  before  I  had  spoken.  In  her  eyes 
there  dawned  the  horror,  the  fear,  the  self-pity 
which  could  not  be  said  in  words.  Then  Jeff  Wray 
came  in  and  I  left  her  —  left  Mesa  City.  There 
was  —  nothing  else  —  to  do." 

His  voice,  which  had  sunk  to  a  lower  key,  halted 
and  then  was  silent.  A  chiming  clock  in  the  hall 
way  struck  the  hour;  other  clocks  in  dainty  echo 
followed  in  different  parts  of  the  house;  an  automo 
bile  outside  hooted  derisively;  but  for  a  long 
while  the  two  men  sat,  each  busied  with  a  thread  of 
memory  which  the  young  man  had  unreeled  from 
the  spool  of  life.  In  the  midst  of  his  thoughts 
Cort  heard  a  voice  at  his  elbow,  the  voice  of  an  old 
man,  tremulous  and  uncertain,  a  softer  voice  than 
his  father's. 

"It  is  strange  —  very,  very  strange!" 

"What  is  strange,  sir?" 

Cornelius  Bent  passed  his  fingers  before  his  eyes 
quickly  and  straightened  in  his  chair. 

"Your  story.  It's  strange.  You  know,  Cort, 
I,  too,  once  loved  a  woman  like  that — the  way  you 
do.  It's  an  old  romance  —  before  your  mother, 
Cort.  Nobody  knows  —  nobody  in  the  East  ever 
knew  —  even  Caroline " 


195 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


He  stopped  speaking  as  though  he  had  already 
said  too  much,  got  up  slowly  and  walked  the  length 
of  the  room,  while  Cortland  watched  him,  con 
scious  again  of  the  sudden  unusual  sense  of  con 
ciliation  in  them  both.  At  the  other  end  of  the 
room  the  General  stood  a  moment,  his  hands  be 
hind  his  back,  his  gaze  upon  the  floor. 

"I  am  sorry,  Cort,"  he  said  with  sudden  harsh 
ness.  And  then,  after  a  pause,  "You  must  not 
see  Mrs.  Wray  again." 

Cortland's  hands  clenched  until  the  knuckles 
were  white,  and  his  eyes  closed  tightly,  as  though 
by  a  muscular  effort  he  might  rob  them  of  a  per 
sistent  vision.  When  he  spoke  his  voice  was  husky 
like  that  of  a  man  who  had  been  silent  for  a  long 
time. 

"You're  right,  sir  —  I've  thought  so  for  some  days. 
But  it's  not  so  easy.  Sometimes  I  think  she  needs 
me- 

" Needs  you?     Don't  they  get  along?" 

"I  don't  know.  There  are  times  when  I  feel  that 
I  am  doing  the  right  sort  of  thing." 

"He  doesn't  abuse  her?" 

"I  don't  know.  She'd  be  the  last  person  to  speak 
of  it  if  he  did.  But  I  think  she  doesn't  altogether 
want  me  to  go." 

General  Bent  shook  his  head  slowly.  "No,  Cort. 
It  won't  do.  What  you've  just  told  me  makes  your 
duty  very  clear  —  your  duty  to  her  and  your  duty 
to  yourself.  There's  danger  ahead  —  danger  for 
you  both.  You  may  not  care  for  my  advice  —  we've 

196 


FATHER  AND  SON 


not  always  understood  each  other  —  but  I  hope 
you'll  believe  me  when  I  say  that  I  offer  it  unsel 
fishly,  with  the  single  purpose  of  looking  after  your 
own  welfare.  Leave  New  York.  I'm  prepared 
to  send  you  West  next  week,  if  you'll  go.  There  will 
be  a  lot  of  work  for  us  all.  It's  possible  that  I 
may  go,  too,  before  long.  I  can  give  you  duties 
which  will  keep  you  busy  so  that  you  won't  have 
time  to  think  of  other  things.  When  I  first  spoke 
to  you  of  this  business  to-night  I  spoke  as  President 
of  the  Amalgamated  Reduction  Company,  now 
I  am  speaking  to  you  as  a  father.  I  want  you 
with  us  more  than  ever  —  largely  on  our  account, 
but  more  largely  now  upon  your  own.  Will  you 
go?" 

Cortland  rose  and  leaned  one  elbow  on  the 
mantel. 

"You  want  me  to  help  you  in  the  fight  for  Wray's 
smelter?" 

"Yes,  I  do." 

"Don't  you  want  me  to  see  her  again?" 

"It's  wiser  not  to.  No  good  can  come  of  it  — 
perhaps  a  great  deal  of  harm." 

"She  would  not  understand  —  she  knows  I  dis 
like  her  husband,  but  it  seems  to  me  I  ought  to 
tell  her " 

"That  you're  making  financial  war  upon  her 
husband?  Forewarn  him  —  forearm  him?  What 
else  would  you  say.  That  doesn't  seem  fair  to  me, 
does  it?" 

He  paused,  watching  his  son  narrowly  and  yet 
197 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


with  a  kind  of  stealthy  pity.  Cortland's  struggle 
cost  him  something. 

"I  suppose  you're  right,"  he  said  at  last.  And 
then,  turning  around  toward  his  father,  "I  will  not 
see  her  again.  Give  me  the  work,  sir,  and  I'll  do 
my  best.  Perhaps  I  haven't  always  tried  to  do  that. 
I  will,  though,  if  you  give  me  the  chance." 

"Your  hand  on  it,  Cort.  I  won't  forget  this. 
I'm  glad  you  spoke  to  me.  It  hasn't  always  been 
our  custom  to  exchange  confidences,  but  I'll  give 
you  more  of  mine  if  you'll  let  me.  I'm  getting  old. 
More  and  more  I  feel  the  need  of  younger  shoulders 
to  lean  on.  I'm  not  all  a  business  document,  but 
the  habit  of  mercilessness  grows  on  one  downtown. 
Mercy  has  no  place  in  business,  and  it's  the  merciful 
man  that  goes  to  the  wall.  But  I  have  another 
side.  There's  a  tender  chord  left  in  me  somewhere. 
You've  struck  it  to-night,  and  there's  a  kind  of 
sweetness  in  the  pain  of  it,  Cort.  It's  rusty  and 
out  of  use,  but  it  can  still  sing  a  little." 

Cortland  laid  his  hand  on  the  old  man's  shoulder 
almost  timidly,  as  he  might  have  done  to  a  stranger. 

"You'll  forgive  me,  father ?" 

"Oh,  that" — and  he  took  his  son's  hand  — 
"I  honor  you  for  that,  my  son.  She  was  the  woman 
you  loved.  You  could  not  hear  her  badly  spoken 
of.  Perhaps  if  I  had  known  my  duty  —  I  should 
have  guessed.  Say  nothing  more.  You're  ready 
to  take  my  instructions?" 

"Yes  —  and  the  sooner  the  better." 

"Very  good.  You'll  hear  more  of  this  to-morrow. 
198 


FATHER  AND  SON 


I  am  —  I'm  a  little  tired  to-night.  I  will  see  you 
at  the  office." 

Cortland  watched  him  pass  out  of  the  door  and 
listened  to  his  heavy  step  on  the  broad  staircase. 
Cornelius  Bent  was  paying  the  toll  of  his  merciless 
years. 

When  he  was  gone,  Cortland  sank  into  the  big 
chair  his  father  had  vacated,  his  head  in  his  hands, 
and  remained  motionless. 


CHAPTER  XV 

INFATUATION 

THE  season  was  at  its  height.  The  Rumsen 
ball,  the  Warringtons'  dinner-dance,  and 
some  of  the  subscription  affairs  had  passed 
into  social  history,  but  a  brilliant  season  of  opera 
not  yet  half  over  and  a  dozen  large  dances  were 
still  to  follow.  Camilla  sat  at  her  desk  assorting 
and  arranging  the  cards  of  her  many  visitors,  re 
cording  engagements  and  obligations.  When  Jeff 
had  left  for  the  West  she  had  plunged  into  the  social 
whirlpool  with  a  desperation  born  of  a  desire  to 
forget,  and,  as  she  went  out,  there  had  come  a 
bitter  pleasure  in  the  knowledge  that,  after  all,  she 
had  been  able  to  win  her  way  in  New  York  against 
all  odds.  People  sought  her  now,  not  because  she 
was  a  protegee  of  Mrs.  Worthington  Rumsen,  or 
because  she  was  the  wife  of  the  rich  Mr.  Wray, 
but  because  she  was  herself. 

The  dangers  which  threatened  no  longer  caused 
her  any  dismay,  for  ambition  obsessed  her.  It  was 
an  appetite  which  had  grown  great  with  feeding, 
and  she  let  it  take  her  where  it  would.  There  was 
not  an  hour  of  the  day  when  she  was  not  busy  —  in 
the  mornings  with  her  notes  and  her  shopping,  in 
the  afternoons  with  luncheons,  teas,  and  other  smart 

200 


INFATUATION 


functions,  at  night  with  dinners,  the  theatre,  or 
the  opera  and  the  calendared  dances.  There  were 
few  opportunities  for  her  to  be  alone,  and  the  thought 
of  a  reconciliation  with  her  husband,  which  had  at 
one  time  seemed  possible,  had  been  relegated  to  her 
mental  dust-bin  in  company  with  an  assorted  lot 
of  youthful  ideals  which  she  had  found  it  necessary 
to  discard. 

She  could  not  remember  the  day  when  she  had 
not  been  socially  ambitious.  Five  months  ago,  be 
fore  she  and  Jeff  had  quarreled,  there  had  been  a 
time  when  she  had  been  willing  to  give  up  the  world 
and  go  back  with  him.  She  had  been  less  ambitious 
at  that  moment  than  ever  before  in  her  life.  If  he 
had  taken  her  with  him  then,  there  might  still  have 
been  time  to  repair  their  damages  and  begin  life 
on  a  basis  of  real  understanding.  For  a  brief  time 
she  had  abhorred  the  new  life  he  had  found  for  her, 
had  hated  herself  for  the  thing  that  she  really  was, 
a  social  climber,  a  pariah  —  too  good  for  her  old 
acquaintances,  not  good  enough  for  her  new  ones — 
a  creature  with  a  mission  of  intrusion,  a  being  neither 
fish,  flesh,  nor  good  red  herring,  and  yet  perhaps 
something  of  all  three.  But  that  period  of  mental 
probation  had  passed.  She  no  longer  felt  that  she 
was  climbing.  There  were  many  broken  rungs  be 
low  her  on  the  social  ladder,  but  those  above  were 
sound,  and  her  head  was  among  clouds  tinted  with 
pink  and  amber. 

Such  was  the  magic  of  success.     She  lived  in  an 
atmosphere  of  soft    excitements    and    pleasurable 
14  201  . 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


exhilarations,  of  compliments  and  of  flattery,  of 
violets  and  roses.  Bridge  lessons  had  improved  her 
game,  but  she  still  discovered  that  the  amounts  she 
could  lose  in  a  week  were  rather  appalling.  Checks 
for  large  amounts  came  regularly  from  the  West, 
and  she  spent  them  a  little  recklessly,  convinced 
that  she  was  obeying  to  the  letter  her  husband's 
injunction  to  strengthen  their  social  position,  no 
matter  what  the  cost.  She  had  written  Jeff  twice 
in  the  first  week  after  his  departure  asking  if  she 
could  not  follow  him  to  Mesa  City.  His  replies 
had  been  brief  and  unnecessarily  offensive  —  so 
that,  though  his  image  loomed  large  at  times,  pride 
refused  further  advances.  Cortland  Bent  had 
been  with  her  continually  and  of  course  people 
were  talking.  She  heard  that  from  Mrs.  Rumsen, 
who,  in  the  course  of  a  morning  of  casual  "mother 
ing,"  had  spoken  to  Camilla  with  characteristic 
freedom. 

"I  know  there's  no  harm  in  his  attentions,  child," 
she  said,  "at  least  so  far  as  you're  concerned.  You 
have  always  struck  me  as  being  singularly  capable 
of  looking  after  yourself  —  and  of  course  Cort  is 
old  enough  to  know  what  he  is  about.  But  it  never 
does  any  one  any  good  to  be  talked  about  —  es 
pecially  a  woman  who  has  her  way  to  make  in  the 
world.  There  is  a  simplicity  almost  rustic  in  the 
way  you  two  young  people  allow  yourselves  to  be 
discovered  in  public  places  —  which,  to  an  ancient 
philosopher  like  myself,  carries  complete  conviction 
of  innocence.  But  others  may  not  be  so  discerning. 

202 


INFATUATION 


If  you  were  ugly  or  deformed  it  wouldn't  make  the 
slightest  difference  what  you  did,  but,*  being  hand 
some,  you  are  on  trial;  and  every  pretty  woman  in 
society  is  on  the  jury  of  a  court  which  convicts  on 
circumstantial  evidence  alone. " 

Camilla  thanked  her  preceptor  for  the  warning, 
aware  of  an  unpleasant  sense  of  shock  at  the  revela 
tion.  She  seemed  to  have  reached  a  point  in  her 
mad  infatuation  with  life  where  warnings  made  no 
impression  upon  her.  She  had  not  seen  Cort  Bent 
for  several  days  now,  and,  while  she  experienced 
a  vague  sense  of  loss  in  his  absence,  which  had  not 
been  explained,  she  was  so  busy  that  she  had  not 
even  found  time  to  analyze  it. 

A  belated  cold  season  had  set  in  —  a  season  of 
snow  and  ice;  and  fashionable  New  Yorkers,  in  a 
brief  interlude  of  unimportant  engagements,  flocked 
for  the  week-end  to  their  country  places  to  enjoy  a 
few  days  of  old-fashioned  winter  weather.  The 
Billy  Havilands'  farm  was  within  motoring  dis 
tance  of  the  town.  It  wasn't  much  of  a  place  in 
the  modern  sense,  merely  a  charming  old  shingled 
farmhouse  which  had  been  remodeled  and  added 
to,  set  in  a  big  lawn  like  a  baroque  pearl  in 
green  enamel,  surrounded  by  ancient  trees  which 
still  protected  it  with  their  beneficent  boughs.  As 
Haviland  and  his  wife  preferred  the  city  in  winter 
and  went  to  their  Newport  cottage  in  summer, 
they  only  used  The  Cove  for  small  house  parties 
between  seasons.  It  was  kept  open  for  just  such 
occasions  as  the  present  one,  and  Camilla,  who 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


had  joined  this  party  at  the  last  moment,  was  look 
ing  forward  with  enjoyment  to  a  glimpse  of  winter 
life  in  a  different  sort  of  community. 

Snow  had  fallen  during  the  night,  but  the  day  was 
cold  and  clear  —  one  of  those  dry,  sparkling  days 
like  the  winter  ones  in  Colorado  when  the  Saguache 
Peak  was  laid  like  a  white  paper-cutting  against 
the  turquoise  sky,  and  the  trees  at  timber  line  were 
visible  in  silhouette  to  the  naked  eye.  It  was  freez 
ing  hard,  and  Camilla's  skin  tingled  sharply  beneath 
her  motor  veil,  but  she  lay  back  in  her  warm  furs 
beside  Dorothy  Haviland  in  the  tonneau,  drinking 
deep  breaths  of  delight  as  she  watched  the  panorama 
of  purple  hills  across  the  river.  The  snow  was  not 
too  deep  for  easy  going,  but  in  places  it  had  drifted 
across  the  road  waist  high.  Rejoicing  in  the  chance 
to  test  the  metal  of  his  high-powered  car,  Haviland 
took  these  drifts  on  the  high  gear,  sending  a  cloud  of 
iridescent  crystals  over  and  about  his  guests,  who 
pelted  the  unresponsive  back  of  his  head  with  snow 
balls.  Farmers  in  sleighs  and  wagons  on  runners 
drew  aside  in  alarm,  to  stare  with  open  mouths  at 
the  panting  demon  —  which  passed  them  by  before 
their  horses  had  time  to  be  frightened.  Every  ride 
with  "Billy"  was  a  "joy"  ride  —  he  hadn't  driven 
this  car  in  the  Vanderbilt  Cup  race  for  nothing. 
Jack  Perot  clung  to  the  robe  rail,  and  alternately 
prayed  and  swore  in  Haviland's  ear;  the  Baroness 
Charny  punctuated  his  remarks  with  cunning  for 
eign  cries,  and  Dorothy  herself  admonished  him  to 
be  careful,  but  Camilla,  whatever  she  felt,  sat  quietly 

204 


INFATUATION 


between  the  two  women,  her  pulses  going  fast,  a 
prey  to  the  new  excitement  of  speed. 

Haviland  had  'phoned  his  orders  from  the  city  to 
have  the  bobsled  sent  over  to  the  Country  Club  — 
and  when  they  drove  through  the  entrance  gates, 
the  pond  in  the  valley  below  the  golf  course  was 
dotted  with  skaters.  A  blue  thread  of  smoke 
trailed  skyward  from  the  cabin  of  the  Fishing  and 
Skating  Club  —  a  part  of  the  larger  organization  — 
from  which  people  came  and  glided  forth  by  twos 
and  threes  over  the  glossy  blue  surface  of  the  pond. 

A  surprise  awaited  the  party,  for  as  the  motor 
drew  up  at  the  steps  of  the  Golf  House  it  was 
greeted  by  a  storm  of  soft  snowballs  from  a  crowd 
ambushed  in  a  snow  fort  on  the  lawn.  The  motor 
party  got  out  hurriedly,  laughing  like  children, 
while  Billy  Haviland,  like  a  good  general,  mar 
shaled  his  forces  under  the  protecting  bulk  of  the 
machine,  while  they  threw  off  their  heavy  furs  and 
made  snowballs  enough  to  sally  forth  valiantly  to 
the  attack.  The  battle  was  short  and  furious, 
until  Jack  Perot  and  Camilla  by  a  dexterous  flank- 
movement  assailed  the  unprotected  wings  and  came 
to  close  quarters  with  the  enemy,  Larry,  Gretchen, 
Cortland  Bent,  and  Rita  Cheyne.  A  well-aimed 
shot  by  Camilla  caught  Cortland  on  the  nose,  which 
disconcerted  him  for  a  moment,  and  Haviland  im 
proved  his  opportunity  by  washing  Rita's  face  in 
snow.  A  truce  was  declared,  however,  but  not  be 
fore  the  besiegers  had  entered  the  breastworks  and 
given  three  cheers  for  their  victory. 

205 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


"I'll  never  forgive  you,  Billy,"  laughed  Rita, 
brushing  the  snow  from  her  neck.  "Never  —  I'm 
simply  soaking." 

"Spoils  of  victory!  You're  lucky  I  didn't  kiss 
you." 

"Yes,  I  am,"  she  said  with  sudden  demureness. 
"I'd  rather  have  my  face  washed." 

The  machine  was  sent  on,  and,  chatting  gaily,  the 
party  made  its  way  down  to  the  cabin  by  the  lake 
side,  a  path  to  which  had  been  cleared  through  the 
snow.  Camilla  glanced  at  Cortland  Bent,  who 
stood  silently  at  her  side. 

"What's  the  matter,  Cort?  Aren't  you  going  to 
speak  to  me?"  she  asked  carelessly. 

He  forced  a  laugh.     "Oh,  yes,  of  course." 

"Where  have  you  been?  Do  you  realize  that  I 
haven't  seen  you  for  the  last  two  days?" 

"Four,"  he  corrected  soberly.  "I  —  I've  been 
very  busy. " 

"That's  no  explanation.     You're  angry?" 

"No,  not  at  all.   I  —  thought  I'd  better  not  come." 

She  examined  him  curiously,  and  laid  her  fingers 
on  his  arm.  "How  funny  you  are?  Has  anything 
happened?" 

He  didn't  reply  at  once,  and  kept  his  gaze  away 
from  her.  "I  came  here  to-day,"  he  said  delib 
erately,  "because  I  thought  it  would  be  the  one  place 
where  you  and  I  wouldn't  meet." 

"Oh!"  and  she  turned  away  abruptly,  her  chin 
in  the  air,  "I'm  sorry.  We  needn't  meet  now/9 
and  she  hurried  her  steps. 

206 


INFATUATION 


But  he  lengthened  his  stride  and  kept  pace  with 
her. 

"You  don't  understand " 

"I  don't  care  to  understand.  You  don't  want 
to  see  me  —  that's  enough " 

"Camilla,  please  - 

"I'm  not  in  the  habit  of  pursuing  the  men  of  my 
acquaintance,  Cort.  I'll  save  you  the  trouble  of 
avoiding  me. "  And  with  that  she  broke  away  from 
him  and  ran  down  the  path,  joining  the  others  at  the 
door  of  the  house.  His  attitude  annoyed  her  more 
because  she  couldn't  understand  it  than  because  of 
any  other  reason.  What  had  come  over  him?  They 
had  parted  as  friends  with  the  definite  assurance 
that  they  were  to  meet  the  next  day.  She  had  been 
busy  writing  letters  then,  but  she  remembered  now 
that  he  had  not  called.  There  was  an  unaccount 
able  difference  in  his  manner,  and  he  had  spoken 
with  a  cold  precision  which  chilled  her.  She  felt 
it  in  all  the  sensitive  antennae  which  a  woman 
projects  to  guard  the  approaches  to  her  heart.  All 
that  was  feminine  and  cruel  in  her  was  up  in  arms 
at  once  against  him.  He  needed  a  lesson.  She  must 
give  it  to  him. 

On  the  ice  they  met  a  merry  party,  and  Billy 
Haviland  pointed  them  all  out  to  Camilla  —  Molly 
Bracknell  and  her  diminutive  husband,  known  in 
clubdom  as  the  "comic  supplement";  Jack  Archer, 
the  famous  surgeon,  and  his  fiancee,  who  had  lost 
her  appendix  and  her  heart  at  the  same  time.  Ste 
phen  Gillis,  the  lawyer,  who  was  in  love  with  his 

207 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


pretty  client,  Mrs.  Cheyne,  and  didn't  care  who 
knew  it. 

"Is  he  really  in  love  with  Mrs.  Cheyne?"  asked 
Camilla. 

"Oh,  yes  —  threw  over  a  girl  he  was  engaged 
to.  He's  got  it  bad  —  worse  than  most  of  'em. " 

"What  a  pity!" 

"Rita's  in  good  form  this  winter." 

"She  has  a  charm  for  men." 

"Dolly  says  she's  a  de  luxe  binding  of  a 
French  novel  on  a  copy  of  'Handley  Cross.'  I 
guess  it's  true.  But  I've  always  been  afraid  of 
Rita." 

"Why?" 

"She's  too  infernally  clever.  She  don't  like  my 
sort.  She  likes  brainy  chaps  with  serious  purposes. 
They're  the  kind  that  always  take  to  her.  I  think 
she  knows  I'm  '  wise.'  ' 

They  crossed  hands,  and  Camilla  resolutely  gave 
herself  over  to  the  pleasure  of  motion.  She  skated 
rather  badly  —  a  fact  to  be  bewailed,  since  Rita 
Cheyne  was  doing  "figure  eights"  and  "corkscrews, " 
but  with  Haviland's  help  she  managed  to  make 
three  or  four  turns  without  mishap.  But  she 
refused  to  "crack  the  whip,"  and  skated  alone  until 
Cortland  Bent  joined  her.  He  offered  her  his  hand, 
but  she  refused  his  help. 

"Won't  you  go  away  please,  Cort?" 

"I've  got  to  see  you  to-night,  Camilla,"  he  said 
suddenly.  "Where  will  you  be?" 

As  she  wouldn't  reply,  he  took  her  hand  and  skated 
208 


INFATUATION 


backward  facing  her.  "You've  got  to  see  me, 
Camilla " 

"I  can't  — I  won't." 

"I'm  going  away  to-morrow." 

"We've  gotten  along  for  four  days  without  meet 
ing,"  she  said  airily.  "I  think  I'll  survive." 

"You're  heartless " 

"  I  know  it.      Please  get  out  of  my  way." 

"No  —  not  until  you  promise  to  let  me  see 
you." 

"You're  seeing  me  now." 

He  took  her  firmly  by  the  elbows.  "Listen, 
Camilla!  I'm  leaving  New  York  to-morrow  for  a 
long  while  —  perhaps  for  good " 

For  the  first  time  she  realized  the  importance  of 
what  he  was  saying  and  looked  up  into  his  eyes, 
discovering  something  in  their  shadows  she  had 
not  seen  before. 

"Is  it  true?     Why  are  you  going?" 

"That's  what  I  wanted  to  tell  you.  May  I  see 
you  to-night?" 

She  considered  a  moment  before  she  replied  in 
differently. 

"Yes,  if  you  like.     I  am  at  the  Havilands'." 

As  they  stopped  before  the  cabin,  Jack  Perot 
joined  them,  offering  to  take  Camilla  for  a  turn, 
but  she  said  she  was  cold,  and  the  three  of  them 
went  inside  to  the  burning  log.  Larry  and  Gretchen 
on  the  bench  put  a  space  between  them  rather 
suddenly. 

"Don't  move  on  our  account,  Larry,"  said  Perot 
209 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


mischievously;  "your  silhouettes  through  the 
window  were  wonderful  —  quite  touching  —  in 
fact." 

"Jack!"  said  Gretchen,  her  face  flaming,  "you 
couldn't  see " 

"No,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  we  couldn't  —  because 
the  shades  are  drawn  " —  the  painter  laughed  immod 
erately  —  "but  you  know  we  might  have." 

"You're  a  very  disagreeable  person,  and  I  don't 
like  you  at  all,"  said  Miss  Janney.  "I'll  never  let 
you  do  my  portrait  —  never!" 

"Ha!  ha!"  he  cried  in  accents  of  Bowery 
melodrama.  "At  last,  Geraldine,  I  have  you  in 
me  cul-lutches.  I'm  desprit  and  starving!  Next 
week  I  paint  your  portrait  —  or  tell  your  father! 
Cha-oose,  beautiful  one!" 

In  the  laugh  which  followed  Larry  joined  good- 
naturedly.  Indeed,  there  was  nothing  left  to 
do  —  unless  it  was  to  wring  the  painter's  neck.  In 
stead  of  which,  he  wrung  his  hand  and  whispered, 
"I  wish  you  would,  Perot.  It'll  save  me  the 
trouble." 

The  rest  of  the  crowd  appeared  after  a  while,  and 
the  steward  brought  hot  Scotches,  which  detracted 
nothing  from  the  gayety  of  the  occasion. 

"God  made  the  country  —  man  made  the  town," 
sighed  Billy  sententiously,  holding  the  amber  liquid 
to  the  firelight.  "The  simple  pleasures — the  healthy 
sports  of  our  ancestors!  Eh,  Rita?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  with  fine  scorn,  "quilting  parties! 
No  bridge,  golf  or  tennis.  Imagine  a  confirmed 

210 


INFATUATION 


night  owl  like  you,  Billy,  tucked  safely  in  bed  at 


nine." 


"I'm  often  in  bed  by  nine." 

"Nine  in  the  morning,"  laughed  Perot.  "That's 
safe  enough. " 

"Don't  believe  'em,  Camilla.  I'm  an  ideal  hus 
band,  aren't  I,  Dolly?" 

"I  hadn't  noticed  it." 

"Oh,  what's  the  use?"  sniffed  Mrs.  Cheyne. 
"There's  only  one  Ideal  Husband." 

"Who?"  asked  a  voice,  solicitous  and  feminine. 

"Oh,  some  other  woman's,  of  course." 

"How  silly  of  you,  Rita,"  said  Gretchen  indig 
nantly.  "It's  gotten  to  the  point  where  nobody 
believes  the  slightest  thing  you  say." 

"That's  just  what  she  wants,"  laughed  Cortland. 
"Don't  gratify  her,  Gretchen." 

Mrs.  Cheyne  shrugged  her  shoulders,  and,  with 
a  glance  at  Camilla,  "Now  the  Ideal  Wife, 
Cort " 

"Would  be  my  own,  "he  interrupted  quickly,  his 
face  flushing.  "I  wouldn't  marry  any  other  kind." 

"That's  why  you  haven't  married,  Cortland  dear," 
said  Rita  acidulously. 

Camilla  listened  with  every  outward  mark  of 
composure  —  her  gaze  in  the  fire  —  conscious  of 
the  growing  animosity  in  Mrs.  Cheyne.  They  had 
met  only  twice  since  Jeff's  departure,  and  on  those 
occasions  each  had  outdone  the  other  in  social 
amenities,  each  aware  of  the  other's  hypocrisy.  In 
their  polite  interchange  of  compliments  Wray's 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


name  had  by  mutual  consent  been  avoided,  and 
neither  of  them  could  be  said  to  have  the  slightest 
tactical  advantage.  But  Camilla  felt  rather  than 
knew  that  an  understanding  of  some  sort  existed 
between  Mrs.  Cheyne  and  Jeff  —  a  more  com 
plete  understanding  than  Camilla  and  her  husband 
had  ever  had.  She  could  not  understand  it,  for 
two  persons  more  dissimilar  had  never  been  created. 
Mrs.  Cheyne  was  the  last  expression  of  a  decadent 
dynasty  —  Jeff,  the  dawning  hope  of  a  new  one. 
She  had  taken  him  up  as  the  season's  novelty,  a 
masculine  curiosity  which  she  had  added  to  her 
cabinet  of  eligible  amusements.  Camilla's  intui 
tion  had  long  since  told  her  of  Jeff's  danger,  and  it 
had  been  in  her  heart  the  night  they  separated  to 
warn  him  against  his  dainty  enemy.  Even  now  it 
might  not  have  been  too  late  —  if  he  would  have 
listened  to  her,  if  he  would  believe  that  her  motive 
was  a  part  of  their  ancient  friendship,  if  he  would 
meet  her  in  a  spirit  of  compromise,  if  he  were  not 
already  too  deeply  enmeshed  in  Rita  Cheyne' s 
silken  net.  There  were  too  many  "ifs,"  and  the 
last  one  seemed  to  suggest  that  any  further  effort 
in  the  way  of  a  reconciliation  would  be  both  futile 
and  demeaning. 

Camilla  was  now  aware  that  Mrs.  Cheyne  was 
going  out  of  her  way  to  make  her  relations  with 
Cort  conspicuous  —  permissible  humor,  had  the 
two  women  been  friendly.  Under  present  conditions 
it  was  merely  impertinence. 

/'Mrs.  Cheyne  means,"  said  Camilla  distinctly, 


INFATUATION 


"that  the  ideal  husbands  are  the  ones  one  can't  get. " 
And  then,  pointedly,  "Don't  you,  Mrs.  Cheyne?" 

Rita  glanced  at  Camilla  swiftly  and  smiled  her 
acknowledgment  of  the  thrust. 

"They  wouldn't  be  ideal,"  she  laughed,  "if  we 
ever  got  them,  Mrs.  Wray. " 

"Touchee,"  whispered  Billy  Haviland  to  Larry 
Berkely,  delightedly. 

Outside  there  was  a  merry  jingle  of  sleighbells, 
and  Mrs.  Haviland  rose.  "Come,  children,"  she 
said,  "that's  for  us.  I  wish  we  had  more  room  at 
The  Cove.  You'll  come,  though,  Cort,  won't 
you?  We  need  another  man." 

"Do  you  mind  if  I  stay  out,  Rita?"  Cortland 
appealed. 

"Oh,  not  at  all,  I'm  so  used  to  being  deserted  for 
Mrs.  Wray  that  I'm  actually  uncomfortable  without 
the  sensation. " 

So  the  party  was  arranged.  A  long  bobsled 
hitched  to  a  pair  of  horses  was  at  the  door,  and  the 
women  got  on,  while  Gretchen  pelted  snowballs  at 
Perot,  and  only  succeeded  in  hitting  the  horses,  so 
that  Camilla  and  the  Baroness  were  spilled  out  into 
the  snow  and  the  man  had  a  hard  time  bringing 
the  team  to  a  stop.  A  pitched  battle  ensued  while 
the  three  women  scrambled  into  their  places,  Cort 
land  and  Billy  covering  the  retreat.  At  last  they 
all  got  on,  and,  amid  a  shower  of  snowballs  which 
the  sledders  couldn't  return,  the  horses  galloped 
up  the  hill  and  out  into  the  turnpike  which  led  to 
the  Haviland  farm. 

213 


CHAPTER  XVI 

OLD   DANGERS 

CAMILLA  had  known  for  some  time  that 
she  could  not  forget.  She  sought  excite 
ments  eagerly  because  they  softened  the 
sting  of  memory,  and  the  childish  delights  of  the 
afternoon  with  the  Havilands,  while  they  made 
the  grim  shadow  less  tangible,  could  not  drive  it 
away.  When  the  idle  chatter  of  small  talk  was 
missing,  Jeff  loomed  large.  At  The  Cove  she  went 
at  once  to  her  room,  but  instead  of  dressing  she 
threw  herself  on  the  bed  and  followed  the  pretty 
tracery  of  the  wall  paper  beside  her;  her  eyes 
only  conjured  mental  pictures  of  the  days  in  Mesa 
City]  before  Cortland  Bent  had  come,  the  long 
rides  with  Jeff  up  the  mountain  trail  when  she  first 
began  to  learn  what  manner  of  man  he  was  and 
what  manner  of  things  he  must  one  day  accomplish. 
She  seemed  to  realize  now  that  even  in  those  early  ( 
days  Jeff  Wray  had  stood  as  a  type  of  the  kind  of  , 
manhood  that,  since  the  beginning  of  time,  has  made 
history  for  the  world. 

With  all  his  faults,  his  vulgar  self-appreciation, 
and  his  distorted  ethics,  there  was  nothing  petty 
or  mean  about  him.  He  was  generous,  had  always 
been  generous  to  a  fault,  and  there  was  many  a 

214 


OLD  DANGERS 


poor  devil  of  a  gambler  or  a  drunkard  even  in  those 
days  who  had  called  his  name  blessed.  He  hadn't  had 
much  to  give,  but  when  he  made  a  stake  there  were 
many  who  shared  it  with  him.  Since  he  had  [been 
married  his  benefactions  had  been  numberless.  He 
never  forgot  his  old  friends  and,  remembering  old 
deeds  of  kindness  to  himself,  had  sought  them  out  — 
a  broken  sheep-herder  back  on  the  range,  a  barber 
in  Pueblo  who  was  paralyzed,  a  cowboy  in  Arizona 
with  heart  disease,  a  freight  brakeman  of  the  D.  &  W. 
who  had  lost  a  leg  —  and  given  them  money  when  he 
couldn't  find  work  that  they  could  do.  She  remem 
bered  what  people  in  the  West  still  said  —  that  Jeff 
had  never  had  a  friend  who  wasn't  still  his  friend. 

She  had  often  reviled  herself  because  her  judg 
ment  of  all  men  was  governed  by  the  external  marks 
of  gentility  which  had  been  so  dear  to  her  heart  — 
the  kind  of  gentility  which  Cortland  Bent  had 
brought  into  Mesa  City.  Gentility  was  still  dear 
to  her  heart,  but  there  was  a  growing  appreciation 
in  her  mind  of  something  bigger  in  life  than  mere 
forms  of  polite  intercourse.  Jack  Perot,  who  was 
painting  her  portrait;  Billy  Haviland,  who  sent  her 
roses;  Douglas  Warrington,  who  rode  with  her  in 
the  park;  Cortland  Bent  —  all  these  men  had  good 
manners  as  their  birthright.  What  was  it  they 
lacked?  Culture  had  carved  them  all  with  finer 
implements  on  the  same  formula,  but  what  they 
had  gained  in  delicacy  they  had  lost  in  force.  Jeff 
might  have  been  done  by  Rodin,  the  others  by  Car- 
riere  —  Beleuze. 

215 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


It  made  her  furious  that  in  spite  of  herself  she  still 
thought  of  Jeff.  She  got  up  and  went  to  the  mirror. 
There  were  little  telltale  wrinkles  about  her  eyes, 
soft  shadows  under  her  cheek-bones  which  had  not 
been  there  when  she  came  to  New  York.  It  was 
worry  that  was  telling  on  her.  She  had  never  yet 
been  able  to  bring  herself  to  the  point  of  believing 
that  all  was  over  between  Jeff  and  herself.  Had  she 
really  believed  that  he  was  willing  to  live  his  future 
without  her,  she  could  not  have  consented  even  for 
so  long  as  this  to  play  the  empty  part  he  had  assigned 
her.  It  was  his  money  she  was  spending,  not  her 
own;  his  money  which  provided  all  the  luxuries  about 
her  —  the  rich  apartment  in  New  York,  the  motor 
car,  carte  blanche  at  Sherry's,  extravagances,  she 
was  obliged  to  acknowledge,  which  for  the  present 
he  did  not  share.  True,  she  was  following  implic 
itly  his  directions  in  keeping  his  memory  green  in 
the  social  set  to  which  he  aspired,  and  she  had  done 
her  part  well.  But  the  burden  of  her  indebtedness 
to  him  was  not  decreased  by  this  obedience,  and  she 
felt  that  she  could  not  for  long  accept  the  conditions 
he  had  imposed.  Such  a  life  must  soon  be  intoler 
able  —  intolerable  to  them  both. 

It  was  intolerable  now.  She  could  not  bear  the 
thought  of  his  brutality,  the  cruelty  of  his  silence, 
the  pitiless  money  which  he  threw  at  her  every  week 
as  one  would  throw  a  bone  to  a  dog.  He  was  carry 
ing  matters  with  a  high  hand,  counting  on  her  love 
of  luxury  and  the  delights  of  gratified  social  ambi 
tion  to  hold  her  in  obedience.  He  had  planned  well, 

216 


OLD  DANGERS 


but  the  end  of  it  all  was  near.  It  was  her  pride  that 
revolted  —  that  Jeff  could  have  thought  her  capable 
of  the  unutterable  things  he  thought  of  her — the 
pitiful  tatters  of  her  pride  which  were  slowly  being 
dragged  from  her  by  the  tongue  of  gossip.  Mrs. 
Rumsen  had  warned  her,  and  Mrs.  Cheyne  made  free 
use  of  her  name  with  Cort's.  The  world  was  con 
spiring  to  throw  her  into  Cortland 's  arms.  She 
would  not  admit  that  the  fault  was  her  own  —  it 
was  Jeff's.  It  had  always  been  Jeff's.  She  had 
given  him  every  chance  to  redeem  her,  but  he  had 
tossed  her  aside — for  another.  Now  she  had  reached 
a  point  when  she  didn't  care  whether  he  redeemed 
her  or  not.  She  felt  herself  drifting  —  drifting  — 
she  didn't  know  where  and  didn't  seem  to  care  where. 

It  was  affection  she  craved,  love  that  she  loved, 
and  Cortland  was  an  expression  of  it.  He  had 
always  been  patient  —  even  when  she  had  treated 
him  unkindly.  A  whispered  word  to  Cortland 

Her  musing  stopped  abruptly.  What  did  Cort 
land  mean  by  avoiding  her?  And  why  was  he  leav 
ing  New  York?  There  was  a  tiny  pucker  at  her 
brows  while  she  gave  the  finishing  touches  to  her 
toilet;  but  when  she  went  down  to  dinner  her  cheeks 
glowed  with  ripe  color  and  her  eyes  were  shot  with 
tiny  sparkling  fires. 

"Auction"  bridge  followed  dinner.  In  the  cut 
ting  Cort  and  the  Baroness  were  out  of  it,  and  when 
Cort  and  the  Baroness  cut  in,  Camilla  and  Perot  cut 
out.  Fate  conspired,  and  it  was  not  until  late  in 
the  evening  that  Cortland  and  Camilla  found  them- 
15  217 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


selves  alone  in  the  deserted  library  at  the  far  end 
of  the  wing.  Camilla  sank  back  into  the  silk  cush 
ions  of  the  big  davenport  wearily. 

"I  played  well  to-night,"  she  said;  "I  believe  even 
Billy  is  pleased  with  me.  I  did  have  luck,  though  — 
shameful  luck " 

She  stretched  her  arms  above  her  head,  sighing 
luxuriously.  "Oh,  life  is  sweet  —  after  all." 

Cortland  watched  her. 

"Is  it?"  he  asked  quietly. 

"Don't  you  think  so,  Cort?" 

"There's  not  much  sweetness  left  for  me  in  any 
thing.  I've  got  to  go  away  from  you,  Camilla." 

"So  you  said."~  And  then  airily,  "Good-by." 

He  closed  his  eyes  a  moment. 

"I  want  you  to  know  what  it  means  to  me." 

"Then  why  do  it?" 

"I  —  I've  thought  it  all  out.  It's  the  best  thing 
I  can  do  —  for  you  —  for  myself " 

"I  ought  to  be  a  judge  of  that." 

His  dark  eyes  sought  her  face  for  a  meaning. 

"It's  curious  you  didn't  consult  me,"  she  went  on. 
"I  hope  I  know  what's  best  for  myself " 

"You  mean  that  you  don't  care  —  my  presence  is 
unimportant.  My  absence  will  be  even  less  im 
portant.  " 

"I  do  care,"  she  insisted.  "What's  the  use  of 
my  telling  you.  I'll  be  very  unhappy  without  you. " 

He  shook  his  head  and  smiled.  "Oh,  I  know  — 
you'll  miss  me  as  you  would  your  afternoon  tea  if 
it  was  denied  you  —  but  you'll  do  without  it." 

218 


OLD  DANGERS 


"I'm  quite  fond  of  afternoon  tea,  Cort."  And 
then,  more  seriously,  "Are  you  really  resolved?" 

"Yes,"  he  muttered,  "resolved  —  desperately  re 
solved.  " 

She  threw  herself  away  from  him  against  the 
opposite  end  of  the  couch,  facing  him,  and  folded 
her  arms,  her  lips  closed  in  a  hard  line. 

"Very  well,  then,"  she  said  cruelly,  "go!"  It 
seemed  as  if  he  hadn't  heard  her,  for  he  leaned 
forward,  his  head  in  his  hands,  and  went  on  in  a 
voice  without  expression. 

"I've  felt  for  some  time  that  I've  been  doing  you 
a  wrong.  People  are  talking  about  us  —  coup 
ling  your  name  with  mine  —  unpleasantly.  Heaven 
knows  what  lies  they're  telling.  Of  course  you  don't 
hear  —  and  I  don't  —  but  I  know  they're  talking. " 

"How  do  you  know?" 

"My  father " 

"Oh!" 

"We  quarreled  —  but  the  poison  left  its  sting." 

Camilla  laughed  nervously,  the  laughter  of  a 
woman  of  the  world.  It  grated  on  him  strangely. 

"Don't  you  suppose  I  know?"  she  said.  "I'm 
not  a  baby.  And  now  that  you've  ruined  my 
reputation  you're  going  to  leave  me.  That's  un 
kind  of  you.  Oh,  don't  worry, "  she  laughed  again. 
"I'll  get  along.  There  are  others,  I  suppose." 

He  straightened  and  turned  toward  her  sternly. 

"You  mustn't  talk  like  that, "  he  said.  "You're 
lying.  I  know  your  heart.  It's  clean  as  snow." 

"Because  you  haven't  soiled  it?"  She  clasped 
219 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


her  hands  over  her  knees  and  leaned  toward  him  with 

wicked  coquetry.     "Really,   Cort,   you're  a  sweet 

boy  —  but  you  lack  imagination.     You  know  you're 

|  not  the  only  man  in  the  world.     A  woman  in  my 

|  position  has  much  to  gain  —  little  to  lose.     I'm 

.»  a  derelict,  a  ship  without  a  captain " 

I  He  interrupted  her  by  taking  her  in  his  arms  and 
putting  his  fingers  over  her  lips.  "Stop!"  he  whis 
pered,  "I'll  not  listen  to  you." 

"I  mean  it.  I've  learned  something  in  your  world. 
I  thought  life  was  a  sacrament.  I  find  it's  only  a 
game. "  She  struggled  away  from  him  and  went  to 
the  fireplace,  but  he  rose  and  stood  beside  her. 

"You're  lying,  Camilla,"  he  repeated,  "lying  to 
me.  Oh,  I  know  —  I've  been  a  fool  —  a  vicious  — 
a  selfish  fool.  I've  let  them  talk  because  I  couldn't 
bear  to  be  without  you  —  because  I  thought  that 
some  day  you'd  learn  what  a  love  like  mine  meant. 

And  I  wanted  you  —  wanted  you " 

"Don't  you  want  me  still,  Cort?"  she  asked 
archly. 

He  put  his  elbows  on  the  mantel  and  gazed  into 
the  flames,  but  would  not  reply,  and  the  smile  faded 
from  her  lips  before  the  dignity  of  his  silence. 

"I've  thought  it  all  out,  Camilla.     I'm  going  away 

on  business  for  my  father,  and  I  don't  expect  to 

come  back.     I  thought  I  could  go  without  seeing 

you  again  —  just  send  you  a  note  to  say  good-by. 

It  was  easier  for  me  that  way.     I  thought  I  had  won 

,  out  until  I  saw  you  to-day  —  but  now  it's  harder 

[  than  ever. " 

220 


OLD  DANGERS 


He  looked  up  as  he  thought  she  might  misconstrue 
his  meaning.  "Oh,  I'm  not  afraid  to  leave  on  your 
account.  Our  set  may  make  you  a  little  careless, 
a  little  cynical,  but  you've  got  too  much  pride  to 
lose  your  grip  —  and  you'll  never  be  anything  else 
but  what  you  are."  He  gazed  into  the  fire  again 
and  went  on  in  the  same  impersonal  tone  as  if  he 
had  forgotten  her  existence.  "I'll  always  love  you, 
Camilla.  ...  I  love  you  more  now  than  I 
ever  did  —  only  it's  different  somehow.  ...  It 
used  to  be  a  madness  —  an  obsession.  .  .  . 
Your  lips,  your  eyes,  your  soft  fingers,  the  warm 
elusive  tints  of  your  skin  —  the  petals  of  the  bud  — 
I  would  have  taken  them  because  of  their  beauty, 
crushed  out,  if  I  could,  the  soul  that  lived  inside,  as 
one  crushes  a  shrub  to  make  its  sweetness  sweeter." 
He  sighed  deeply  and  went  on:  "I  told  you  I  loved 
you  then  —  back  there  in  Mesa  City  —  but  I  lied 
to  you,  Camilla.  It  wasn't  love.  Love  is  calmer, 
deeper,  almost  judicial,  more  mental  than  physical 
even.  .  .  .  I'm  going  away  from  you  because 
I  love  you  more  than  I  love  myself. " 

"  Oh !  you  never  loved  me, "  she  stammered.  "  You 
couldn't  speak  coldly  like  this  if  you  did. " 

He  raised  his  eyes  calmly,  but  made  no  reply. 

"Love  —  judicial!"  she  went  on  scornfully. 
"  What  do  you  know  of  love?  Love  is  a  storm  in  the 
heart;  a  battle  —  a  torrent  —  it  has  no  mind  for  any 
thing  but  itself.  Love  is  ruthless  —  self-seeking M 

"You  make  it  hard  for  me,"  he  said  with  an  effort 
at  calmness. 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


"You  know  I  —  I  need  you  —  and  yet  you'd 
leave  me  at  a  word. " 

"I'm  going  —  because  it's  best  to  go,"  he  said 
hoarsely. 

"You're  going  because  you  don't  care  what  hap 
pens  to  me. " 

He  flashed  around,  unable  to  endure  more,  and 
caught  her  in  his  arms.  "Do  I  look  like  a  man  who 
doesn't  care?  Do  I?"  he  whispered.  "If  you 
only  hadn't  said  that  —  if  you  only  hadn't  said 
that " 

Now  that  she  had  won  she  was  ready  to  end  the 
battle,  and  drew  timidly  away.  But  with  Cort  the 
battle  had  just  begun.  And  though  she  struggled 
to  prevent  it,  he  kissed  her  as  he  had  never 
done  before.  Her  resistance  and  the  lips  she  denied 
him,  the  suppleness  of  her  strong  young  body,  the 
perfume  of  her  hair  brought  back  the  spell  of  mid 
summer  madness  which  had  first  enchained  him. 

"You've  got  to  listen  to  me  now,  Camilla.  I  don't 
care  what  happens  to  my  promises  —  to  you  —  or 
to  any  one  else.  I'm  mad  with  love  for  you.  I'll 
take  the  soul  of  you.  It  was  mine  by  every  right 
before  it  was  his.  I'll  go  away  from  here  —  but 
you'll  go  with  me  —  somewhere,  where  we  can  start 
again " 

In  that  brief  moment  in  his  arms  there  came  a 
startling  revelation  to  Camilla.  Cort's  touch  — 
his  kisses  —  transformed  him  into  a  man  she  did 
not  know. 

"Oh,  Cort!     Let  me  go!"  she  whispered. 
222 


OLD  DANGERS 


"Away  from  all  this  where  the  idle  prattle  of  the 
world  won't  matter,"  he  went  on  wildly.  "You 
have  no  right  to  stay  on  here,  using  the  money  he 
sends  you  —  my  money  —  money  he  stole  from  me. 
He  has  thrown  you  over,  dropped  you  like  a  faded 
leaf.  You're  clinging  to  a  rotten  tree,  Camilla.  He'll 
fall.  He's  going  to  fall  soon.  You'll  be  buried 
with  him  —  and  nothing  between  you  and  death 
but  his  neglect  and  brutality. " 

In  his  arms  Camilla  was  sobbing  hysterically. 
The  excitement  with  which  she  had  fed  her  heart 
for  the  last  few  months  had  suddenly  stretched  her 
nerves  to  too  great  a  tension.  She  had  been  mad 
—  cruel  to  tantalize  him  —  and  she  had  not  realized 
what  her  intolerance  meant  for  them  both  until  it 
was  too  late. 

He  misunderstood  the  meaning  of  those  tears 
and  petted  her  as  if  she  had  been  a  child. 

"Don't,  Camilla  —  there's  nothing  to  fear.  I'll 
be  so  tender  to  you  —  so  kind  that  you'll  wonder 
you  could  ever  have  thought  of  being  happy  before. 
Look  up  at  me,  dear.  Kiss  me.  You  never  have, 
Camilla.  Kiss  me  and  tell  me  you'll  go  with  me  — 
anywhere." 

But  as  he  tried  to  lift  her  head  she  put  up  her 
hands  and  with  an  effort  repulsed  —  broke  away 
from — him  and  fell  on  the  couch  in  a  passion  of  tears. 
She  had  not  meant  this  —  not  this.  It  wasn't  in 
her  to  love  any  one. 

In  the  process  of  mental  readjustment  following 
her  husband's  desertion  of  her  she  had  learned  to 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


think  of  Cort  in  a  different  way.  It  seemed  as 
though  the  tragedy  of  her  married  life  had  dwarfed 
every  other  relation,  minimized  every  emotion  that 
remained  to  her.  Cortland  Bent  was  the  lesser 
shadow  within  the  greater  shadow,  a  dimmer 
figure  blurred  in  the  bulk,  a  part  of  the  tragedy,  but 
not  the  tragedy  itself.  For  a  time  he  had  seemed 
to  understand,  and  of  late  had  played  the  part  of 
guide,  philosopher,  and  friend,  if  not  ungrudgingly, 
at  least  patiently,  without  those  boyish  outbursts 
of  petulance  and  temper  in  which  he  had  been  so 
difficult  to  manage.  She  cared  for  him  deeply, 
and  lately  he  had  been  so  considerate  and  so  gentle 
that  she  had  almost  been  ready  to  believe  that  the 
kind  of  devotion  he  gave  her  was  the  only  thing 
in  life  worth  while.  He  had  learned  to  pass  over 
the  many  opportunities  she  offered  him  to  take  ad 
vantage  of  her  isolation,  and  she  was  thankful  that 
at  last  their  relation  had  found  a  happy  path 
of  communion  free  from  danger  or  misunder 
standing.  While  other  people  amused  and 
distracted  her,  Cort  had  been  her  real  refuge,  his 
devotion  the  rock  to  which  she  tied.  But  this! 
She  realized  that  what  had  gone  before  was  only 
the  calm  before  the  storm  —  and  she  had  brought 
it  all  on  herself! 

He  watched  her  anxiously,  waiting  for  the  storm 
to  pass,  and  at  last  came  near  and  put  his  arms 
around  her  again. 

"No  —  not  that ! "  she  said  brokenly.  " It  wasn't 
that  I  wanted,  Cort.  You  don't  understand.  I 


OLD  DANGERS 


needed  you  —  but  not  that  way. "     He  straightened 
slowly  as  her  meaning  came  to  him. 

"You  were  only  —  fooling  —  only  playing  with 
me?  I  might  have  known " 

"No,  I  wasn't  playing  with  you.  I  —  couldn't 
bear  to  lose  you  —  but,"  she  stammered  resolutely, 

"now  —  I  must You've  got  to  go.     I  don't 

know  what  has  happened  to  me  —  I  haven't  any 
heart  —  I  think  —  no  heart  —  or  soul " 

He  had  turned  away  from  her,  his  gaze  on  the 
dying  log. 

"Why  couldn't  you  have  let  me  go  —  without 
this?"  he  groaned.  "It  would  have  been  easier  for 
both  of  us. " 

She  sat  up  slowly,  still  struggling  to  suppress  the 
nervous  paroxysms  which  shook  her  shoulders. 

"Forgive  me,  Cort.  You  —  you'll  get  along  best 
without  me.  I've  only  brought  you  suffering.  I'm 
a  bird  of  ill-omen  —  which  turns  on  the  hand  that 
feeds  it.  I  was  —  was  thinking  only  of  myself. 
I  wish  I  could  make  you  happy  —  you  deserve  it, 
Cort.  But  I  can't,"  she  finished  miserably,  "I 
can't." 

He  did  not  move.  It  almost  seemed  as  though 
he  had  not  heard  her.  His  voice  came  to  her  at 
last  as  though  from  a  distance. 

"I  know,"  he  groaned.  "God  help  you,  you  love 
him. "  She  started  up  as  though  in  dismay,  and  then, 
leaning  forward,  buried  her  face  in  her  hands  in  si 
lent  acquiescence.  When  she  looked  up  a  moment 
later  he  was  gone. 

225 


CHAPTER  XVII 

OLD   ROSE   LEAVES 

CAMILLA  wrote  nothing  to  Jeff  about  her 
illness.  It  was  nothing  very  serious,  the 
doctor  said  —  only  a  fashionable  case  of 
nerves.  The  type  was  common,  the  medicine  rest 
and  quiet.  He  commended  his  own  sanitarium, 
where  he  could  assure  her  luxury  and  the  very  best 
society,  but  Camilla  refused.,  She  wanted  to  be 
alone,  and  so  she  denied  herself  to  callers,  canceled 
all  her  engagements,  and  took  the  rest  cure  in  her 
own  way.  She  slept  late  in  the  mornings,  took 
her  medicine  conscientiously,  put  herself  on  a  diet, 
and  in  the  afternoon,  with  her  maid  only  for  com 
pany,  took  long  motor  rides  in  the  country  to  out- 
of-the-way  places  on  roads  where  she  would  not 
be  likely  to  meet  her  acquaintances. 

She  knew  what  it  was  that  she  needed.  It  wasn't 
the  strychnia  tonic  the  doctor  had  prescribed,  or 
even  .the  rest  cure.  The  more  she  was  alone,  the 
more  time  she  had  to  think.  It  was  in  moments 
like  the  present,  in  the  morning  hours  in  her  own 
rooms,  that  she  felt  that  she  could  not  forget. 
There  was  no  longer  the  hum  of  well-bred  voices 
about  her,  no  music,  the  glamor  of  lowered  lights, 
or  the  odor  of  embowered  roses  to  distract  her  mind 


OLD  ROSE  LEAVES 


or  soothe  her  senses.  In  the  morning  hours  Jeff  was 
present  with  her  in  the  flesh.  Everything  about  her 
reminded  her  of  him;  the  desk  at  which  he  had 
worked,  with  its  pigeon-holes  full  of  papers  in  the 
reckless  disorder  which  was  characteristic  of  him; 
the  corncob  pipe  which  he  had  refused  to  discard; 
the  Durham  tobacco  in  its  cotton  bag  beside  a  govern 
ment  report  on  mining;  the  specimens  of  ore  from 
the  "Lone  Tree,"  which  he  had  always  used  as 
paper  weights;  the  brass  bowl  into  which  he  had 
knocked  his  ashes;  and  the  photograph,  in  its  jew 
eled  frame,  of  herself  in  sombrero  and  kerchief, 
taken  at  Myers's  Photograph  Gallery  in  Mesa  City 
at  the  time  when  she  had  taught  school,  before 
Jeff's  dreams  had  come  true. 

She  took  the  picture  up  and  examined  it  closely. 
It  was  the  picture  of  a  girl  sitting  on  a  table,  a 
lariat  in  one  hand  and  a  quirt  in  the  other,  and 
the  background  presented  Mesa  City's  idea  of  an 
Italian  villa,  with  fluted  columns,  backed  by  some 
palms  and  a  vista  of  lake.  How  well  she  remembered 
that  gray  painted  screen  and  the  ornate  wicker 
chair  and  table  which  were  its  inevitable  accompani 
ment.  They  had  served  as  a  background  for  Pete 
Mulrennan  in  a  Prince  Albert  coat,  when  he  was 
elected  mayor;  for  Jack  Williams,  the  foreman  of 
the  "Lazy  L"  ranch,  and  his  bride  from  Kinney; 
for  Mrs.  Brennan  in  her  new  black  silk  dress;  for  the 
Harbison  twins  and  their  cherubic  mother.  She 
put  the  photograph  down,  and  her  head  sank  for 
ward  on  her  arms  in  mute  rebellion.  In  her  sleep 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


she  had  murmured  Cort's  name,  and  Jeff  had  heard 
her.  But  she  knew  that  in  itself  this  was  not 
enough  to  have  caused  the  breach.  What  else  had 
he  heard?  Jeff  had  tired  of  her  —  that  was  all  — 
had  tired  of  being  married  to  a  graven  image,  to 
a  mere  semblance  of  the  woman  he  had  thought  she 
was.  She  could  not  blame  him  for  that.  It  was 
his  right  to  be  tired  of  her  if  he  chose. 

It  was  the  sudden  revelation  of  the  actual  state 
of  her  mind  with  regard  to  Cortland  which  had 
given  her  the  first  suggestion  of  her  true  bearings  — 
that  and  the  careless  chatter  of  the  people  of  their 
set  in  which  Mrs.  Cheyne  was  leading.  Cortland 
had  guessed  the  truth  which  she  had  been  so  reso 
lutely  hiding  from  herself.  She  loved  Jeff  —  had 
always  loved  him  —  and  would  until  the  end  of 
time.  Like  the  chemist  who  for  months  has  been 
seeking  the  solution  of  a  problem,  she  had  found 
the  acid  which  had  magically  liberated  the  desired 
element;  the  acid  was  Jealousy,  and,  after  all  dan 
gerous  vapors  had  passed,  Love  remained  in  the 
retort,  elemental  and  undefiled.  The  simplicity 
of  the  revelation  was  as  beautiful  as  it  was  mysti 
fying.  Had  she  by  some  fortuitous  accident  suc 
ceeded  in  transmuting  some  baser  metal  into  gold, 
she  could  not  have  been  more  bewildered.  Of 
course,  Jeff  could  not  know.  To  him  she  was  still 
the  Graven  Image,  the  pretty  Idol,  the  symbol  of 
what  might  have  been.  How  could  he  guess  that 
his  Idol  had  been  made  flesh  and  blood  —  that  now 
she  waited  for  him,  no  longer  a  symbol  of  lost 

228 


OLD  ROSE  LEAVES 


illusions,  but  just  a  woman  —  his  wife.  She  raised 
her  head  at  last,  sighed  deeply,  and  put  the  photo 
graph  in  the  drawer  of  the  desk.  As  she  did  so, 
the  end  of  a  small  battered  tin  box  protruded.  She 
remembered  it  at  once  —  for  in  it  Jeff  had  always 
kept  the  letters  and  papers  which  referred  to  his 
birth  and  babyhood.  She  had  looked  them  over 
before  with  Jeff,  but  it  was  almost  with  a  feeling  of 
timidity  at  an  intrusion  that  she  took  the  box  out 
and  opened  it  now.  The  papers  were  ragged, 
soiled,  and  stained  with  dampness  and  age,  and 
the  torn  edges  had  been  joined  with  strips  of  court- 
plaster.  There  were  two  small  portraits  taken  by  a 
photographer  in  Denver.  Camilla  took  the  photo 
graphs  in  her  fingers  and  looked  at  them  with  a  new 
interest.  One  of  the  pictures  was  of  a  young 
woman  of  about  Camilla's  age,  in  a  black  beaded 
Jersey  waist  and  a  full  overskirt.  Her  front  hair 
was  done  in  what  was  known  as  a  "bang,"  and  the 
coils  were  twisted  high  on  top  of  her  head.  But 
even  these  disfigurements  —  according  to  the  lights 
of  a  later  generation  —  could  not  diminish  the  at 
tractiveness  of  her  personality.  There  was  no 
denying  the  beauty  of  the  face,  the  wistful  eyes,  the 
straight,  rather  short  nose,  the  sensitive  lips,  and 
the  deeply  indented,  well-made  chin  —  none  of  the 
features  in  the  least  like  Jeff's  except  the  last,  which, 
though  narrower  than  his,  had  the  same  firm  lines 
at  the  angle  of  the  jaw.  It  was  not  a  weak  face, 
nor  a  strong  one,  for  whatever  it  gained  at  brows 
and  chin  it  lost  at  the  eyes  and  mouth. 

229 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


But  Jeff's  resemblance  to  his  father  was  remark 
able.  Except  for  the  old-fashioned  collar  and 
"string"  tie,  the  queerly  cut  coat,  and  something 
in  the  brushing  of  the  hair,  the  figure  in  the  other 
photograph  was  that  of  her  husband  in  the  life. 
She  had  discovered  this  when  she  and  Jeff  had 
looked  into  the  tin  box  just  after  they  were  married, 
and  had  commented  on  it,  but  Jeff  had  said  nothing 
in  reply.  He  had  only  looked  at  the  picture  steadily 
for  a  moment,  then  rather  abruptly  taken  it  from 
her  and  put  it  away.  From  this  Camilla  knew  that 
the  thoughts  of  his  mother  were  the  only  ones  which 
Jeff  had  cared  to  select  from  the  book  of  memory 
and  tradition.  Of  his  father  he  had  never  spoken, 
nor  would  speak.  He  would  not  even  read  again 
these  letters  which  his  mother  had  kept,  wept  over, 
and  handed  down  to  her  son  that  the  record  of  a 
man's  ignominy  might  be  kept  intact  for  the  gen 
erations  to  follow  her. 

It  was,  therefore,  with  a  sense  of  awe,  of  intrusion 
upon  the  mystery  of  a  sister's  tragedy,  that  Camilla 
opened  the  letters  again  and  read  them.  There 
were  eight  of  them  in  all,  under  dates  from  May  until 
October,  1875,  all  with  the  same  superscription* 'Ned." 
As  she  read,  Camilla  remembered  the  whole  sad 
story,  and,  with  the  face  of  the  woman  before  her, 
was  able  to  supply  almost  word  for  word  the  tender, 
passionate,  bitter,  forgiving  letters  which  must  have 
come  between.  She  had  pleaded  with  him  in  May  to 
return  to  her,  but  in  June,  from  New  York,  he 
had  written  her  that  he  could  not  tell  when  he  would 

230 


OLD  ROSE  LEAVES 


go  West  again.  In  July  he  was  sure  he  would  not 
go  West  until  the  following  year,  if  then.  In  August 
he  sent  her  money  —  which  she  must  have  returned 
— for  the  next  letter  referred  to  it.  In  September 
his  manner  was  indifferent  —  in  October  it  was 
heartless.  It  had  taken  only  six  months  for  this 
man  madly  to  love  and  then  as  madly  to  forget. 

Camilla  remembered  the  rest  of  the  story  as  Jeff 
had  told  it  to  her,  haltingly,  shamedly,  one  night 
at  Mrs.  Brennan's,  as  it  had  been  told  to  him  when 
he  was  a  boy  by  one  of  the  nurses  who  had  taken 
him  away  from  the  hospital  where  his  mother  had 
died  —  of  her  persistent  refusal  to  speak  of  Jeff's 
father  or  to  reveal  his  identity,  of  Jeff's  birth  with 
out  a  name,  and  of  his  mother's  death  a  few  weeks 
later,  unrepentant  and  unforgiving.  With  her  last 
words  she  had  blessed  the  child  and  prayed  that 
they  would  not  name  it  after  her.  At  first  he  had 
been  playfully  called  "Thomas  Jefferson,"  and  so 
Thomas  Jefferson  he  remained  until  later  another  of 
his  guardians  had  added  the  "Wray"  after  a  char 
acter  in  a  book  she  was  reading  and  "because  it 
sounded  pretty. "  That  was  Jeff's  christening. 

Camilla  put  the  letters  aside  with  the  faded  blue 
ribbon  which  had  always  accompanied  them  and 
gazed  at  the  photograph  of  Jeff's  father.  Yes,  it 
was  a  cruel  face  —  a  handsome,  cruel  face  —  and 
it  looked  like  Jeff.  She  had  never  thought  of  Jeff 
as  being  cruel.  Did  she  really  know  her  husband, 
after  all?  Until  they  had  come  to  New  York  Jeff 
had  always  been  forbearing,  kindly,  and  tender. 

231 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


Before  their  marriage  he  had  sometimes  been  im 
patient  with  her  —  but  since  that  time,  often  when 
he  had  every  right  to  be  angry,  he  had  contented 
himself  with  a  baby-like  stare  and  had  then  turned 
away  and  left  her.  Flashes  of  cruelty  sometimes 
had  shown  in  his  treatment  of  the  Mexicans  on  the 
railroad  or  at  the  mines,  but  it  was  not  the  kind  of 
cruelty  this  man  in  the  photograph  had  shown  — 
not  the  enduring  cruelty  of  heartlessness  which 
would  let  a  woman  die  for  the  love  of  him.  The 
night  Jeff  had  left  her  the  worst  in  him  was  domi 
nant,  and  yet  she  had  not  thought  of  him  as  cruel.  It 
was  to  the  future  alone  which  she  must  look  for  an 
answer  to  the  troubled  question  that  rose  in  her  mind. 

At  this  moment  her  maid  entered  —  a  welcome 
interruption. 

"Will  you  see  Mrs.  Rumsen,  Madame?" 

"Oh,  yes,  Celeste.  Ask  her  if  she  won't  come  in 
here." 

Of  all  the  friendships  she  had  made  in  New  York, 
that  of  Mrs.  Rumsen  was  the  one  Camilla  most 
deeply  prized.  There  was  a  tincture  of  old-world 
simplicity  in  her  grandeur.  Only  those  persons  were 
snobbish,  Mrs.  Rumsen  always  averred,  whose  social 
position  was  insecure.  It  was  she  who  had  helped 
Camilla  to  see  society  as  it  really  was,  laid  bare  to 
her  its  shams,  its  inconsistencies,  and  its  follies;  who 
had  shown  her  the  true  society  of  old  New  York; 
taken  her  to  unfamiliar  heights  among  the  *6  cliff- 
dwellers"  of  the  old  regime  who  lived  in  the 
quiet  elegance  of  social  security  with  and  for  their 

232 


OLD  ROSE  LEAVES 


friends,  unmoved  by  the  glitter  of  modern  gew 
gaws,  who  resisted  innovations  and  fought  hard 
for  old  traditions  which  the  newer  generation  was 
seeking  to  destroy,  a  mild-eyed,  incurious  race  of 
people  who  were  sure  that  what  they  had  and  were 
was  good,  and  viewed  the  social  extravagances  as 
the  inhabitants  of  another  planet  might  do,  from 
afar,  who  went  into  the  world  when  they  chose,  and 
returned  to  their  "cliffs"  when  they  chose,  sure  of 
their  welcome  at  either  place.  They  were  the  peo 
ple  Rita  Cheyne  called  "frumps,"  and  Cortland 
Bent,  "bores,"  but  to  Camilla,  who  had  often 
found  herself  wondering  what  was  the  end  and  aim 
of  all  things,  they  were  a  symbol  of  completion. 

Mrs.  Rumsen  laid  aside  her  wraps  with  the  de 
liberation  of  a  person  who  is  sure  of  her  welcome. 

"You'll  forgive  my  appearance?"  asked  Camilla. 
"I  didn't  think  you'd  mind." 

"I'm  flattered,  child.  It  has  taken  longer  than 
I  supposed  it  would  to  teach  you  not  to  be  punctil 
ious  with  me.  Well,  you're  better,  of  course.  This 
long  rest  has  done  wonders  for  you." 

"Oh,  yes.  But  I'm  afraid  I  wouldn't  last  long 
nere.  I'm  used  to  air  and  sunshine  and  bed  at  ten 
o'clock  at  night."  She  paused  a  moment.  "I've 
been  thinking  of  going  West  for  a  while." 

"Really?     When?" 

"I  — I  haven't  decided.  I  thought  that  Jeff 
would  have  returned  by  this  time,  but  his  business 
still  keeps  him. " 

' '  And  you  miss  him  ?  That's  very  improper.  I'm 
10  233 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


afraid  I  haven't  schooled  you  carefully  enough." 
She  smiled  and  sighed.  "That  is  a  vulgar  weak 
ness  your  woman  of  society  must  never  confess  to. 
We  may  love  our  husbands  as  much  as  we  like,  but 
we  mustn't  let  people  know  it.  It  offends  their 
conceit  and  reminds  them  unpleasantly  of  their  own 
deficiencies. " 

"People  aren't  really  as  bad  as  you're  trying  to 
paint  then,"  laughed  Camilla.  "Even  you,  Mrs. 
Rumsen!  Why,  I  thought  the  habit  of  cynicism 
was  only  for  the  very  young  and  inexperi 
enced.  " 

"Thanks,  child.  Perhaps  it's  my  second  child 
hood.  I  don't  want  to  be  cynical  —  but  I  must. 
One  reason  I  came  to  you  is  because  I  want  you  to 
refresh  my  point  of  view.  I  wonder  what  air  and 
sunshine  and  bed  at  ten  o'clock  would  do  for  me. 
Would  you  like  to  prescribe  it  for  me?  I  wonder  if 
you  wouldn't  take  me  West  with  you." 

Camilla  laughed  again. 

"Are  you  really  in  earnest?  Of  course  I'd  be 
delighted  —  but  I'm  afraid  you  wouldn't  be.  The 
accommodations  are  abominable  except,  of  course, 
in  Denver,  and  you  wouldn't  want  to  stay  there. 
You  know  our  —  our  house  isn't  finished  yet.  It 
would  be  fine  if  we  could  camp  —  but  that  isn't 
very  comfortable.  I  love  it.  But  you  know  there 
are  no  porcelain  tubs " 

"Oh,  I  know.  I've  camped  in  the  West,  dear, 
a  good  many  years  ago  —  before  you  were  born.  I 

wonder  how  I  should  like  it  now " 

234 


OLD  ROSE  LEAVES 


She  paused,  her  wandering  gaze  resting  on  the 
desk,  which  Camilla  had  left  in  disorder,  the  letters 
scattered,  the  photographs  at  which  she  had  been 
looking  propped  upright  against  the  tin  document- 
box.  It  was  on  the  photographs  that  Mrs.  Rumsen's 
gaze  had  stopped.  Slowly  she  rose  from  her  chair, 
with  an  air  of  arrested  attention,  adjusted  her  lorg- 
non,  and  examined  it  at  close  range. 

"I  thought  I  might  have  been  mistaken  at  first," 
she  said  quickly.  "I  see  I'm  not.  Camilla,  dear, 
where  on  earth  did  you  get  that  photograph  of  the 
General?" 

Camilla  had  risen.  "The  General?"  she  faltered. 
"I  don't  understand." 

"Of  my  brother  —  Cornelius  Bent  —  that  is  his 
photograph.  I  have  one  like  it  in  the  family  album 
at  home. " 

"That  can't  be." 

"I  was  looking  over  them  only  the  other  day  — 
why  do  you  look  so  strangely?" 

"Are  you  sure?     You  cant  be  sure " 

"I  am.  I  remember  the  queer  cravat  and  the 
pose  of  the  hands  on  the  chair.  I  remember  him, 
too  —  perfectly.  Do  you  think  I  wouldn't  know  my 
own  brother?" 

"Oh,  there  must  be  some  mistake  —  it  is  dread 
ful.  I  can't " 

"What  is  dreadful,  child?  What  do  you  mean?" 
She  laid  a  hand  on  Camilla's  arm,  and  Camilla 
caught  at  it,  her  nerves  quivering, 

"The  photograph  is " 

235 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


"Where  did  you  get  it?  It  isn't  mine,  is  it? 
orCortland's?" 

"No,  no.  It  has  been  in  that  tin  box  for  more 
than  thirty  years.  It  isn't  yours.  It's  Jeff's  — 
my  husband's  —  do  you  understand?  It's  his  — 
oh,  I  can't  tell  you.  It's  too  horrible.  I  can't 
believe  it  myself.  I  don't  want  to  believe  it." 

She  sank  into  the  chair  at  the  desk,  trembling 
violently.  Mrs.  Rumsen,  somewhat  surprised  and 
aware  of  the  imminence  of  a  revelation  the  nature 
of  which  she  could  not  even  faintly  surmise,  bent 
over  Camilla  kindly  and  touched  her  gently  on  the 
shoulder. 

"Compose  yourself,  Camilla,  and  if  you  think  I 
ought  to  know,  tell  me.  What  had  my  brother  to 
do  with  you  or  yours?  How  did  his  picture  come 
here?" 

Camilla  replied  with  difficulty. 

"That  picture  has  been  in  Jeff's  possession  since 
he  was  a  baby.  It  was  the  only  heritage  his  mother 
left  him,  the  photograph  and  these  letters.  I  have 
just  been  reading  them.  They  were  written  to  her. 
He  had  deserted  her  —  before  Jeff  was  born " 

Mrs.  Rumsen's  hand  had  dropped  from  Camilla's 
shoulder,  and  she  turned  quickly  away  —  with  a 
sharp  catch  in  her  breath.  When  she  spoke,  her 
voice,  like  Camilla's,  was  suppressed  and  controlled 
with  difficulty. 

"Then  my  brother  was  —  your  husband's " 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  Camilla  broke  in  quickly. 
"It  is  all  so  dreadful.  There  may  be  some  mistake. 

236 


OLD  ROSE  LEAVES 


Jeff  will  never  speak  of  it.  He  has  tried  all  these 
years  to  forget.  I  don't  know  why  I  took  these 
letters  out  to  read.  Perhaps  it  would  be  better  if 
you  hadn't  known " 

"No,  no.  I  think  I  ought  to  know.  Perhaps  in 
justice  to  my  brother " 

"There  can  be  no  justice  for  Jeff's  father,  Mrs. 
Rumsen.  I  have  read  his  letters  to  her  —  to  Jeff's 
mother.  Before  you  came  in  I  was  trying  to  think 
of  a  punishment  horrible  enough  for  the  kind  of 
men  who  deceive  women  as  he  did,  and  then  leave 
them  to  face  the  world  alone." 

"But  perhaps  there  was  something  you  don't 
know "  she  groped  vainly. 

"Every  question  you  would  ask,  every  excuse  that 
he  could  offer,  is  answered  in  these  letters.  Now 
that  you  know  Jeff's  story  perhaps  you  had  better 
read  them. " 

With  trembling  hands  she  gathered  the  letters 
and  gave  them  to  her  visitor,  who  now  sat  in  the 
big  armchair  near  the  window,  her  straight  figure 
almost  judicial  in  its  severity.  She  glanced  at  the 
handwriting  and  at  the  signature,  and  then  let  the 
papers  fall  into  her  lap. 

"Yes,  they  are  my  brother's,"  she  said  slowly. 
"It  is  his  handwriting  —  and  the  name  —  the 
General's  name  is  Cornelius  Edward  —  'Ned'  was 
his  name  at  college  —  he  never  used  his  first 
name  until  later  in  life.  I  —  I  suppose  there's  no 
doubt  about  it." 

She  sat  with  one  hand  to  her  brow  as  though 
237 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


trying  to  reconcile  two  parts  of  an  astounding 
narrative.  Camilla's  revelation  did  not  seem  in 
the  least  like  reality.  Cornelius  Bent's  part  in  it 
was  so  at  variance  with  his  character  as  she  had 
known  it.  There  had  never  been  time  for  love  or 
for  play.  When  he  had  given  up  his  profession  of 
engineering  and  plunged  into  business  downtown 
his  youth  was  ended.  She  recalled  that  this  must 
have  been  about  the  time  he  returned  from  the 
Western  trip  —  the  year  before  he  was  married. 
The  making  of  money  had  been  the  only  thing 
in  life  her  brother  had  ever  cared  about.  He  had 
loved  his  wife  in  his  peculiar  way  until  she  died, 
and  he  had  been  grateful  for  his  children.  His 

membership  in  the Regiment,  years  ago,  had 

been  a  business  move,  and  the  service,  though 
distinguished,  had  made  him  many  valuable  business 
connections,  but  all  of  Cornelius  Bent's  family  knew 
that  his  heart  and  his  soul  were  downtown,  day  and 
night,  night  and  day. 

And  yet  there  seemed  no  chance  that  Camilla 
could  be  mistaken.  The  marks  of  handling,  the 
stains  of  Time  —  perhaps  of  tears  —  the  pin-hole  at 
the  top,  these  were  the  only  differences  between 
the  photograph  in  her  album  at  home  and  the  one 
she  now  held  in  her  fingers. 

Camilla  waited  for  her  to  speak  again.  Her  own 
heart  was  too  full  of  Jeff  and  of  what  this  discovery 
might  mean  to  him  to  be  willing  to  trust  herself  to 
further  speech  until  she  was  sure  that  her  visitor 
understood  the  full  meaning  of  the  situation.  There 

238 


OLD  ROSE  LEAVES 


was  a  sudden  appreciation  of  the  delicacy  of  her  own 
position  and  of  the  danger  to  which  her  friendship 
with  Mrs.  Rumsen  was  being  subjected  —  and, 
highly  as  she  had  prized  it,  Camilla  knew  that  if 
her  visitor  could  not  take  her  own  point  of  view  with 
regard  to  Jeff's  father  and  with  regard  to  Jeff  him 
self  she  must  herself  bring  that  friendship  to  an  end. 
In  some  anxiety  she  waited  and  watched  Mrs. 
Rumsen  while  she  read.  The  proud  head  was  bent, 
the  brows  and  chin  had  set  in  austere  lines,  and 
Camilla,  not  knowing  what  to  expect,  sat  silently 
and  waited. 

"It  is  true,  of  course,"  said  her  visitor,  softly. 
"  There  can't  be  the  slightest  doubt  of  it  now.  There 
are  some  allusions  here  which  identify  these  letters 
completely.  I  don't  know  just  what  to  say  to  you, 
child.  From  the  first  time  I  saw  your  husband  he 
attracted  me  curiously  —  reflected  a  memory  — 
you  remember  my  speaking  of  it?  It  all  seems  so 
clear  to  me  now  that  the  wonder  is  I  didn't  think  of 
it  myself.  The  resemblance  between  the  two  men 
is  striking  even  now." 

"Yes  —  yes  —  I  hadn't  thought  of  that. " 

There  was  another  silence,  during  which  Mrs. 
Rumsen  seemed  to  realize  what  was  passing  in 
Camilla's  mind  —  her  sudden  reticence  and  the 
meaning  of  it,  for  she  straightened  in  her  chair  and 
extended  both  hands  warmly. 

"  It  is  all  true.  But  my  brother's  faults  shall  make 
no  difference  in  my  feeling  for  his  children.  If  any 
thing  I  should  and  will  love  them  the  more.  Come 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


and  kiss  me,  Camilla,  dear,"  she  said  with  gentle 
simplicity. 

And  Camilla,  her  heart  full  of  her  kindness,  fell 
on  her  knees  at  Mrs.  Rumsen's  feet. 

"You  are  so  good  —  so  kind,"  she  sobbed  hap- 


"Not  at  all,"  said  Mrs.  Rumsen  with  a  return  of 
her  old  "grenadier"  manner,  at  the  same  time 
touching  her  handkerchief  to  her  eyes.  "To 
whom  should  I  not  be  good  unless  to  my  own.  If 
my  brother  disowns  your  husband,  there's  room 
enough  in  my  own  empty  heart  for  you  both  -  >} 

Camilla  started  back  frightened,  her  eyes  shining 
through  her  tears. 

"You  must  not  speak  of  this  to  him  —  to  General 
Bent  —  not  yet.  I  must  think  what  it  is  best  for 
us  to  do." 

"No,  dear.  I'll  not  speak  of  it.  I'll  never  speak 
of  it  unless  you  allow  me  to.  It  is  your  husband's 
affair.  He  shall  do  what  he  thinks  best.  As  for 
Cornelius  —  it  is  a  matter  for  my  brother  —  and 
his  God  - 

"He  has  forgotten.  Perhaps  it  would  be  better 
if  he  never  knew." 

"Something  tells  me  that  he  will  learn  the  truth. 
It  was  written  years  ago.  It  will  not  come  through 
me  —  because  it  is  not  my  secret  to  tell.  One 
thing  only  is  certain  in  my  mind,  and  that  is  that 
your  husband,  Jeff,  must  be  told.  It  is  his  right." 

"Yes,  I  know.  I  must  go  to  him.  It  will  be 
terrible  news  for  him.  " 

240 


OLD  ROSE  LEAVES 


"Terrible?" 

"I  fear  so.  I  remember  his  once  saying  that  if  he 
ever  found  his  father  he'd  shoot  him  as  he  would 
a  dog." 

As  Mrs.  Rumsen  drew  back  in  alarm,  she  added 
quickly,  "Oh,  no,  of  course  he  didn't  mean  that. 
That  was  just  Jeff's  way  of  expressing  himself." 

As    Camilla   rose,  Mrs.    Rumsen  sighed  deeply. 

"I  don't  suppose  I  have  any  right  to  plead  for 
my  brother  —  but  you  and  Jeff  must  do  him  justice, 
too.  All  this  happened  a  long  while  ago.  Between 
that  time  and  this  lie  thirty  years  of  good  citizen 
ship  and  honorable  manhood.  Cornelius  has  been 
no  despoiler  of  women. "  She  picked  up  the  papers 
again.  "The  curious  thing  about  it,  Camilla,  is 
that  nowhere  in  these  letters  is  there  any  mention 
of  a  child.  I  can't  understand  that.  Have  you 
thought  —  that  perhaps  he  did  not  know?  It's 
very  strange,  mystifying.  I  have  never  known  the 
real  heart  of  my  brother,  but  he  could  hardly  have 
been  capable  of  that.  He  was  never  given  at  any 
time  to  show  his  feelings  —  even  to  his  wife  or  his 
family.  Have  you  thought  —  that  perhaps  he 
loved  — Jeff 'smother?" 

"I  hope  —  I  pray  that  he  did.  Perhaps  if  Jeff 
could  believe  that  —  but  the  letters  —  no,  Mrs. 
Rumsen  —  no  man  who  had  ever  loved  could  have 
written  that  last  letter. " 

"But  you  must  do  what  you  can  to  make  your 
husband  see  the  best  of  it,  Camilla.  That  is  your 
duty,  child  —  don't  you  see  it  that  way?" 

241 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


Camilla  was  kneeling  on  a  chair,  her  elbows  on 
its  back,  her  fingers  wreathing  her  brows. 

"Yes,  I  suppose  so,"  she  sighed.  "But  I'm 
afraid  in  this  matter  Jeff  will  not  ask  my  opinions  — 
he  must  choose  for  himself.  I  don't  know  what  he 
will  do  or  say.  You  could  hardly  expect  him  to  show 
filial  devotion.  Gladys  and  Cortland"  —  she  rose 
in  a  new  dismay  and  walked  to  the  window  —  "I 
had  not  thought  of  them." 

Her  visitor  followed  Camilla  with  questioning  eyes. 
"They  must  share  the  burden  —  it  is  theirs,  too," 
she  put  in  after  a  moment. 

"It  is  very  hard  for  me  to  know  what  to  do.  It  is 
harder  now  than  it  would  have  been  before  this 
fight  of  the  Amalgamated  for  the  smelter.  They 
are  enemies  —  don't  you  suppose  I  hear  the  talk 
about  it?  General  Bent  has  sworn  to  ruin  Jeff  —  to 
put  him  out  of  business;  and  Jeff  will  fight  until  he 
drops.  Father  against  son  —  oh,  Mrs.  Rumsen, 
what  can  be  done?"  She  took  the  photograph  and 
letters  from  the  lap  of  her  visitor  and  stood  before 
the  mantel.  "If  I  burned  them " 

"No,  no,"  Mrs.  Rumsen  had  risen  quickly  and 
seized  Camilla  by  the  arm.  "You  mustn't  do  that." 

"It  would  save  so  much  pain " 

"No  one  saved  her  pain.  You  have  no  right. 
Who  are  you  to  play  the  part  of  Providence  to  two 
human  souls?  This  drama  was  arranged  years 
before  you  were  born.  It's  none  of  your  affair. 
Fate  has  simply  used  you  —  used  us  —  as  humble 
instruments  in  working  out  its  plans. " 


OLD  ROSE  LEAVES 


Camilla  shook  her  head.  "It  can  do  Jeff  no  good. 
It  will  do  Gladys  and  Cortland  harm.  Jeff  has 
forgotten  the  past.  It  has  done  him  no  harm  — 
except  that  he  has  no  name.  He  has  won  his  way 
without  a  name  —  even  this  will  not  give  him  one. 
Jeff's  poor  incubus  will  be  a  grim  reality  —  tangible 
flesh  —  to  be  despised." 

Mrs.  Rumsen  looked  long  into  the  fire.  "I  can't 
believe  it,"  she  said  slowly.  "My  brother  and  I 
are  not  on  the  best  of  terms  —  we  have  never  been 
intimate,  because  we  could  not  understand  each 
other.  But  he  is  not  the  kind  of  man  any  one 
despises.  People  downtown  say  he  has  no  soul.  If 
he  hasn't,  then  this  news  can  be  no  blow  to  him. 
If  he  has " 

She  paused.  And  then,  instead  of  going  on,  took 
Camilla  by  the  hand. 

"Camilla,"  she  said  gently,  "we  must  think  long 
over  this  —  but  not  now.  It  must  be  slept  on.  Get 
dressed  while  I  read  these  letters,  and  we'll  take  a 
spin  into  the  country.  Perhaps  by  to-morrow 
we'll  be  able  to  see  things  more  clearly." 


CHAPTER  XVIH 

COMBAT 

IT  HAD  been  a  time  of  terrific  struggles.  For 
four  months  Wray's  enemies  had  used  every 
device  that  ingenuity  could  devise  to  harass 
him  in  the  building  of  his  new  road,  the  Saguache 
Short  Line;  had  attacked  the  legality  of  every  move 
in  the  courts;  hampered  and  delayed,  when  they 
could,  the  movement  of  his  material;  bribed  his 
engineers  and  employes;  offered  his  Mexicans 
double  wages  elsewhere;  found  an  imaginary  flaw 
in  his  title  to  the  Hermosa  Estate  which  for  a  time 
prevented  the  shipment  of  ties  until  Larry  came  on 
and  cleared  the  matter  up.  Finally  they  caused 
a  strike  at  the  Pueblo  Steel  Works,  where  his  rails 
were  made,  so  that  before  the  completion  of  the 
contract  the  works  were  shut  down.  Tooth  and 
nail  Jeff  fought  them  at  every  point,  and  Pete 
Mulrennan's  judge  at  Kinney,  whose  election  had 
taken  place  before  the  other  crowd  had  made  def 
inite  plans,  had  been  an  important  asset  in  the 
fight  for  supremacy. 

The  other  crowd  had  appealed  from  his  decisions, 
of  course,  but  the  law  so  far  had  been  on  Wray's 
side,  and  there  was  little  chance  that  the  decisions 
would  be  overruled  in  the  higher  court.  But  as 

244 


COMBAT 


Jeff  well  knew,  the  Amalgamated  crowd  had  no  in 
tention  of  standing  on  ceremony,  and  what  they 
couldn't  do  in  one  way  they  attempted  to  accom 
plish  in  another.  Five  carloads  of  ties  on  the 
Denver  and  Saguache  railroad  were  ditched  in  an 
arroyo  between  Mesa  City  and  Saguache.  Wray's 
engineers  reported  that  the  trestles  had  been  tam 
pered  with.  Jeff  satisfied  himself  that  this  was 
true,  then  doubled  his  train  crews,  supplied  the 
men  with  Winchesters  and  revolvers,  and  put  a 
deputy  sheriff  in  the  cab  of  each  locomotive.  After 
that  an  explosion  of  dynamite  destroyed  a  number 
of  his  flat  cars,  and  a  fire  in  the  shops  was  narrowly 
averted.  A  man  caught  at  the  switches  had  been 
shot  and  was  now  in  the  hospital  at  Kinney  with 
the  prospect  of  a  jail  sentence  before  him.  Judge 
Weigel  was  a  big  gun  in  Kinney,  and  he  liked  to 
make  a  big  noise.  He  would  keep  the  law  in  Sa 
guache  County,  he  said,  if  he  had  to  call  on  the 
Governor  to  help  him. 

More  difficult  to  combat  were  the  dissensions 
Jeff  found  among  his  own  employes.  The  German 
engineers,  like  other  men,  were  fallible,  and  left  him 
when  the  road  was  half  done  because  they  were 
offered  higher  salaries  elsewhere.  His  under- 
engineers,  his  contractors,  his  foremen  were  all  sub 
ject  to  the  same  influences,  but  he  managed  somehow 
to  keep  the  work  moving.  New  men,  some  of  them 
just  out  of  college,  were  imported  from  the  East 
and  Middle  West,  and  the  Development  Company 
was  turned  into  an  employment  agency  to  keep 

245 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


the  ranks  of  workmen  filled.  Mexicans  went  and 
Mexicans  came,  but  the  building  of  the  road  went 
steadily  on.  There  were  no  important  engineering 
problems  to  solve,  since  the  greater  part  of  the  line 
passed  over  the  plains,  where  the  fills  and  cuts 
were  small  and  the  grading  inexpensive.  Seven 
months  had  passed  since  ground  had  been  broken 
and  the  road,  in  spite  of  obstacles,  had  been  nearly 
carried  to  completion. 

Already  Wray  had  had  a  taste  of  isolation.  For 
two  months  there  had  been  but  one  passenger  train 
a  day  between  Kinney  and  Saguache.  To  all 
intents  and  purposes  Kinney  was  now  the  Western 
terminus  of  the  road,  and  Saguache  was  beginning 
to  feel  the  pinch  of  the  grindstones.  Notwithstand 
ing  the  findings  of  the  Railroad  Commission, 
Judge  Weigel's  decision,  and  Jeff's  representations 
through  his  own  friends  at  Washington,  the  Den 
ver  and  Western  refused  to  put  on  more  trains. 
Saguache,  they  contended,  was  not  the  real  ter 
minus  of  the  road;  that  the  line  had  been  extended 
from  Kinney  some  years  before  to  tap  a  coal  field 
which  had  not  proved  successful;  that  Saguache 
was  not  a  growing  community,  and  that  the  old 
stage  line  still  in  operation  between  the  two  towns 
would  be  adequate  for  every  purpose.  These  were 
lies  of  course,  vicious  lies,  for  every  one  knew  that 
since  the  development  of  the  Mesa  City  properties 
Saguache  had  trebled  in  size,  and  that  the  freight 
business  alone  in  ten  years  would  have  provided 
for  the  entire  bonded  indebtedness  of  the  road. 

246 


COMBAT 


What  might  happen  in  time  Jeff  did  not  know  or 
care.  It  was  a  matter  which  must  be  fought  out 
at  length  and  might  take  years  to  settle.  The 
Chicago  and  Utah  Railroad  Company  for  the  present 
had  command  of  the  situation.  To  handle  the 
business  Jeff  had  put  on  a  dozen  four-mule  teams 
between  Kinney  and  Saguache,  which  carried  his 
freight  and  necessary  supplies  along  the  old  trail 
over  the  Boca  Pass,  which  was  shorter  by  ten  miles 
than  the  railroad,  a  heart-breaking  haul  and  a 
dangerous  one  to  man  and  beast.  But  it  was  the 
only  thing  left  for  him  to  do. 

Realizing  the  futility  of  any  efforts  at  coer 
cion,  Jeff  had  relinquished  the  losing  battle  and 
had  put  his  heart  and  soul  into  the  building  of  the 
Saguache  Short  Line.  He  knew  every  stick  and 
stone  of  it  and  rode  along  the  line  from  camp  to 
camp,  lending  some  of  his  own  enthusiasm  to  the 
foremen  of  the  gangs,  pitting  one  crowd  against 
the  other  in  friendly  rivalry  for  substantial  bo 
nuses.  At  last  the  connecting  links  were  forged 
and  only  a  matter  of  twenty  miles  of  track  remained 
to  be  laid  —  when  the  Pueblo  Steel  Works  shut 
down.  This  was  a  severe  blow  —  one  on  which 
Jeff  had  not  counted.  The  penalties  for  non 
delivery  to  which  the  steel  company  were  liable 
were  heavy,  but  Jeff  did  not  want  the  penalties. 
Compared  with  his  own  magnificent  financial  pros 
pects,  the  penalties  were  only  a  drop  in  the  bucket. 
He  wanted  his  road.  His  entire  future  depended 
upon  its  completion  —  the  smelter,  the  Develop- 

247 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


ment  Company,  and  all  his  chain  of  mining,  coal, 
and  lumber  properties.  Without  that  road  he 
was  now  at  the  mercy  of  his  enemies. 

Twenty  miles  of  rails!  They  seemed  very  little 
in  the  face  of  what  he  had  already  accomplished. 
He  had  not  counted  on  this,  and  had  laid  no  alter 
native  plans.  The  Denver  and  California  people 
were  powerless  to  help  him.  A  subtle  influence 
was  at  work  among  the  steel  companies,  and,  so 
far  as  Jeff  could  see,  it  would  take  him  from  three 
to  five  months  to  get  his  rails  from  the  West  or 
East.  In  the  meanwhile  what  might  his  enemies 
not  accomplish  in  bringing  about  his  downfall. 
What  would  become  of  his  pledges  to  the  settlers 
on  the  Hermosa  Estate  —  and  the  lot-holders  of 
Saguache,  many  of  whose  houses  were  only  half 
built  while  they  waited  for  the  material  to  com 
plete  them?  These  people  were  already  impatient, 
and  in  a  short  while,  unless  something  could  be  done 
to  open  connections,  the  storm  must  break. 

Some  days  before,  by  request,  Jeff  had  met  Cort- 
land  Bent  in  Denver.  He  was  glad  to  learn  that 
at  last  the  Amalgamated  had  decided  to  come  out 
into  the  open  and  kept  the  appointment,  wonder 
ing  why  the  General  had  chosen  Cortland  as  his 
emissary.  He  had  entered  the  offices  of  the  Chi 
cago  and  Utah  with  his  usual  air  of  self-confidence, 
frankly  curious  as  to  what  part  Cort  could  be 
expected  to  play  in  such  a  big  game.  It  did  not 
take  him  long  to  learn.  They  had  not  been  talking 
more  than  a  few  moments  before  Jeff  discovered 

248 


COMBAT 


that  General  Bent  had  made  no  mistake.  The 
bored,  abstracted  air  of  the  gilded  youth,  the  man 
nerisms  which  Jeff  had  been  accustomed  to  asso 
ciate  with  Cortland  Bent,  were  for  some  reason  lack 
ing.  In  the  short  time  since  they  had  last  met  a 
change  of  some  sort  had  come  over  his  old  acquain 
tance.  He  conveyed  an  impression  of  spareness 
and  maturity,  as  though  in  a  night  he  had  melted 
off  all  superfluities  of  flesh  and  spirit.  His  eyes 
now  seemed  to  be  more  deeply  set,  their  gaze,  for 
merly  rather  deliberate,  now  penetrating,  almost 
to  a  degree  of  shrewdness.  He  was  no  longer  the 
boy  who  had  been  a  failure.  He  was  now  the  man 
who  had  tasted  the  bitterness  of  success. 

"I  thought  we  might  make  one  more  effort  for 
peace,  Wray.  That's  why  I'm  here.  I'm  fully 
informed  as  to  the  affairs  of  the  Amalgamated 
Reduction  Company  and  as  to  my  father's  pre 
vious  conversations  with  you.  I'm  authorized  to 
talk  over  your  interests  in  the  Valley.  We  thought 
before  carrying  out  all  our  plans  you  might  like 
to  have  a  chance  to  reconsider." 

"That's  pretty  clever  of  you,  Bent.  I'm  ready 
to  talk  business  —  any  time.  Fire  away!" 

"I  will.  By  this  time  you  have  probably  formed 
some  sort  of  an  idea  of  the  kind  of  a  proposition 
you're  up  against.  I'm  not  making  any  pretence 
of  friendship  when  I  warn  you  that  you're  going 
to  lose  out  in  the  end.  My  instructions  are  to  ask 
you  to  come  in  with  us  now.  Later  perhaps  you 
couldn't  do  it  so  advantageously J9 
17  249 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


"H —  m!  I'm  figuring  my  chances  are  getting 
better  every  minute,  Bent."  He  paused  and  then 
added,  smiling,  "How  would  your  crowd  like  to 
come  in  with  me?  I've  got  a  good  thing  —  a  very 
good  thing.  And  I  wouldn't  mind  selling  a  small 
block  at  a  good  figure.  It  seems  a  pity  to  cut 
each  other's  throats,  don't  it?  They'll  be  building 
houses  of  gold-bricks  out  here  next  year,  and  you 
and  I  will  pay  the  bill  —  while  we  might  be  putting 
a  snug  profit  into  our  pockets." 

Bent  remembered  another  bluff  of  Wray's  which 
had  been  expensive,  so  he  only  laughed. 

"You  once  froze  me  out  with  a  pair  of  deuces, 
Wray,  but  I'm  holding  cards  this  hand,"  he  finished 
quietly. 

"I  haven't  such  a  bad  hand,  Bent,"  drawled 
Jeff,  shaking  some  Durham  into  a  paper.  "Even 
'fours'  wouldn't  scare  me."  He  put  the  drawing 
string  of  his  tobacco-bag  in  his  teeth  and  closed 
the  bag  viciously.  "  See  here  —  we're  wasting 
time.  What  are  your  offers?  If  they're  not  better 
than  your  father's  were,  it's  not  worth  while  talking." 

"Better  than  my  father's?"  Cortland  couldn't 
restrain  a  gasp  of  admiration.  "Why,  Wray,  your 
property  isn't  worth  what  it  was." 

"Why   not?"    savagely. 

"Well,  for  one  thing,"  said  Cortland  coolly, 
"your  railroad  connections  are  not  what  they 
might  be.  I  might  add  to  that,  there's  no  assur 
ance  they're  going  to  be  improved." 

"Not  unless  I  give  it  to  you.  Trains  are  sched- 
250 


COMBAT 


uled  to  run  on  the  Saguache  Short  Line  on  the 
twenty-fifth  of  May." 

"They're  not  going  to  run,  Wray."  Jeff  turned 
on  him  quickly,  but  Cortland's  eyes  met  his  eagerly. 
"That's  true,"  he  added.  "Believe  it  or  not,  as 
you  choose." 

Jeff's  sharp  glance  blurred  quickly.  Then  he 
smiled  and  looked  out  of  the  window  with  his 
childish  stare. 

"Oh,  well,"  he  said  quietly,  "we'll  do  the  best 


we  can." 


"You'd  better  take  my  advice  and  come  in  with 
us  now.  We'll  meet  you  in  a  fair  spirit " 

"Why?"  asked  Jeff  suddenly.  "Why  should 
you  meet  me  in  any  kind  of  spirit.  You've  got 
things  all  your  own  way  —  at  the  upper  end  of  the 
Valley  —  now  you  say  you've  coppered  my  outlet 
at  Pueblo." 

"Yes,  that's  true.  But  there  are  other  reasons 
why  we  prefer  to  go  no  farther  without  an  effort 
to  come  to  terms.  We're  frank  in  admitting  that 
when  we  can  accomplish  anything  by  compromise 
we  prefer  to  do  it.  This  fight  has  been  expensive. 
It  promises  to  be  more  expensive.  But,  no  matter 
what  your  reasons,  ours  are  greater,  and  no  matter 
what  move  you  make,  the  Amalgamated  can  check 
you.  The  Amalgamated  will  win  in  the  end.  It 
always  has.  It  always  will.  You've  only  to  look 
at  its  history " 

"Oh,  I  know  its  history,"  said  Wray.  "It's 
a  history  of  organized  crime  in  three  states.  You've 

251 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


had  a  succession  of  easy  marks  —  of  sure  things. 
I'm  another  one.  You've  got  a  sure  thing.  Why 
don't  you  go  ahead  and  play  it.  Why  do  you 
want  to  talk  about  it?  I  wouldn't  in  your  place. 
I'd  clean  you  out  and  hang  your  bones  up  the  way 
you  did  Conrad  Seemuller's,  for  the  crows  to  roost 
on."  Wray  leaned  forward  and  brought  his  fist 
down  on  the  table.  "I  know  what  your  'fan- 
spirit'  means,  Cort  Bent.  It  means  that  your 
'sure  thing'  is  a  'selling  plater';  that  you've  played 
your  best  cards  and  the  tricks  are  still  in  my  hand." 

Cortland  Bent's  shoulders  moved  almost  imper 
ceptibly. 

"You're  mistaken,"  he  said  shortly. 

"Well,  you'll  have  to  prove  it.  I  lived  for  some 
years  in  Missouri." 

"Then  you  won't  consider  any  basis  for  settle 
ment?" 

"There's  nothing  to  settle.  You  started  this 
fight.  Now  finish  it.  Either  your  father  wins  — 
or  I  do.  He  wouldn't  consider  my  figures  in  New 
York.  He'd  be  less  likely  to  consider  them  now. 
They've  gone  up  since  then." 

Cortland  rose  and  walked  to  the  window. 

"I  warn  you  that  you're  making  a  mistake.  This 
is  neither  a  bluff  nor  a  threat.  I  mean  what  I 
say.  You're  going  to  lose.  You've  been  ham 
pered  by  lack  of  railroad  facilities.  How  do  you 
like  it?  Your  own  mines  have  kept  your  plant 
busy,  but  you  can't  buy  any  ore  and  you  can't 
compete  with  us.  You'll  never  be  able  to.", 


COMBAT 


"I'll  take  my  chances." 

"Then  this  is  final?" 

"Yes."  And,  as  Cortland  Bent  rose  and  took 
up  his  hat,  "You  go  back  to  those  that  sent  you 
here  and  say  that  on  the  twenty-fifth  of  May  the 
Saguache  Smelting  Company  will  be  in  the  market 
for  ore.  I've  never  competed  with  your  company. 
I've  always  been  content  to  take  my  profit  at  the 
current  prices.  But  if  it's  necessary  to  be  a  hog 
to  remain  in  this  business,  I'll  be  the  biggest  hog 
now  or  get  out  of  it.  You  tell  your  people  that  in 
future  I'll  regulate  my  schedule  to  theirs,  and 
whatever  the  prices  of  the  Amalagmated  are,  my 
prices  will  be  better.  Is  that  clear?" 

"Perfectly.     I'm  much  obliged.     Good  morning." 

The  interview  had  terminated  rather  suddenly 
—  almost  too  suddenly  to  be  entirely  satisfactory 
to  Jeff,  who  had  at  first  seen  in  a  talk  with  Cort 
land  Bent  an  opportunity  to  learn  by  inductive 
methods  something  of  the  future  plans  of  his 
enemies.  He  realized,  as  he  watched  Bent's  squared 
shoulders  disappear  through  the  door  of  an  inner 
office,  that  in  this  respect  he  had  been  entirely  un 
successful.  Bent  had  revealed  nothing  that  Jeff  did 
not  know  before.  Jeff  had  a  feeling,  too,  that  Bent 
had  retired  with  a  slight  advantage,  even  though 
it  had  been  moral  rather  than  tactical.  Through 
out  the  interview  Bent  had  preserved  the  same 
demeanor  of  quiet  confidence,  of  repression  and 
solidity,  which,  in  spite  of  his  advances,  had  more 
than  offset  Jeff's  violence  and  distemper.  What 

253 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


had  come  over  the  man?  Had  he  found  himself 
at  last? 

In  his  heart  Jeff  had  always  had  a  feeling  of  good- 
humored  contempt  for  the  men  of  Cortland  Bent's 
class,  and  the  fact  that  Camilla  preferred  this  one 
to  him  had  made  him  less  tolerant  of  them  even 
than  before.  He  was  unwilling  to  acknowledge  to 
himself  the  slight  sense  of  shock  he  had  experienced 
in  discovering  that  Cort  Bent  was  now  a  foeman 
worthy  of  his  own  metal.  Their  trails  were  cross 
ing  too  often.  It  wasn't  healthy  for  either  of  them. 

He  understood  now  why  it  was  that  Camilla 
had  written  him  vaguely  of  an  urgent  matter  about 
which  she  could  not  write,  requesting  permission 
to  come  West  at  once.  He  had  put  it  down  to  the 
whim  of  a  woman  —  as  he  did  everything  feminine 
he  could  not  understand.  It  was  all  clear  to  him 
now.  She  wanted  to  be  near  Cortland  Bent  and 
feared  to  take  any  definite  step  which  might  com 
promise  her  in  the  eyes  of  her  husband.  He  had 
had  some  misgivings  about  her  letters  —  they  had 
seemed  so  frank,  so  womanly  and  friendly,  with  a 
touch  of  regretful  tenderness  in  them  that  was 
unlike  anything  Jeff  could  remember  when  they 
had  been  together.  But  he  was  glad  now  that  he 
had  refused  her.  Seeing  Bent  had  brought  back 
into  Jeff's  mind  the  whole  sad  history  of  their  mis 
taken  marriage.  There  wasn't  a  day  when  he  didn't 
miss  her,  and  his  business  worries  were  never  so 
thick  about  him  that  her  image  didn't  intrude, 
Frequently  he  found  himself  thinking  and  plan- 

254 


COMBAT 


ning,  as  he  used  to  plan,  for  Camilla;  only  to  remem 
ber  bitterly  in  time  that  the  battle  he  was  fighting 
was  only  for  himself.  And  now  the  man  she  loved 
had  come  down  to  help  the  legions  of  autocracy 
against  him.  He  was  glad  of  that.  It  would  nerve 
him  for  the  struggle.  He  could  fight  better  with 
Cort  Bent  on  the  other  side. 

With  an  effort  he  put  the  thought  of  Camilla  from 
his  mind  and  went  about  his  other  business  with  a 
new  determination  to  circumvent  his  foes.  He 
always  fought  better  when  his  back  was  to  the  wall, 
and  his  conversation  with  Bent  had  confirmed  the 
necessity  of  completing  the  Short  Line  at  any  cost. 

The  drains  upon  his  resources  had  been  enormous. 
Three  million  dollars  had  already  been  spent,  and 
there  was  another  million  still  to  be  provided  for. 
His  expenses  had  been  greater  because  of  the 
unusual  impediments  thrown  in  his  way.  The 
mine  was  paying  "big,''  and  the  railroad  and  the 
banks  were  still  backing  him,  but  he  knew  that  there 
was  a  limit  to  the  amounts  he  must  expect  from  these 
quarters.  He  had  tried  to  buy  rails  in  the  open 
market  and  found  that  his  enemies  had  forestalled 
him.  The  mills  agreed  to  take  his  orders,  but  dur 
ing  the  press  of  business  refused  to  name  a  definite 
date  for  delivery.  General  Bent,  whose  friendship 
was  necessary  to  the  steel  interests  East  and  West, 
had  seen  to  that.  But  if  the  Amalgamated  thought 
that  the  lack  of  rails  was  going  to  stop  the  construc 
tion  of  the  Short  Line,  they  were  going  to  have 
another  guess. 

255 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


Already  an  alternative  plan  had  suggested  itself 
to  Wray,  a  desperate,  unheard-of  plan  which  he 
could  never  have  thought  of  except  as  a  last  resort. 
But  the  more  he  thought  of  it,  the  more  convinced 
he  was  that  it  was  the  only  solution  of  his  problem. 
He  would  tear  up  the  rails  of  the  old  narrow-gauge 
which  ran  from  Mesa  City  up  to  the  old  coal 
field  at  Trappe.  They  were  light  rails,  old  and 
rusty  from  disuse,  but  they  were  rails,  and  by  the 
use  of  more  ties  and  "blue-boards"  for  the  time 
would  serve  his  purpose.  With  the  sidings  and  a 
reserve  supply  of  the  D.  &  S.  at  Saguache,  he  man 
aged  to  figure  out  enough  to  finish  the  Short  Line. 
He  knew  his  engineers  wouldn't  approve  —  they 
couldn't  approve,  he  knew,  on  any  grounds  but  those 
of  expediency,  for  such  construction  was  dangerous 
and  would  make  the  accomplishment  of  any  kind 
of  a  fast  schedule  impossible,  but  they  would  give 
him  his  connection  —  without  which  all  of  his 
plans  must  fall  to  earth.  By  October,  or  perhaps 
by  late  summer,  he  would  manage  to  get  standard 
rails  somewhere.  It  would  be  easier  once  the  road 
was  in  operation.  He  couldn't  help  smiling  when 
he  went  into  the  office  of  the  Denver  and  Cali 
fornia.  If  this  was  the  last  card  Bent's  crowd 
could  play,  it  was  on  the  tallies  that  they  were  to 
lose  the  game. 

His  plans  met  with  the  approval  of  his  friends, 
and  Jeff  went  back  to  Mesa  City  with  a  lighter 
heart  than  when  he  had  left  it.  A  hurried  confer 
ence  with  his  engineers  and  directors,  which  ex- 

256 


COMBAT 


hausted  some  of  Jeff's  strength  and  most  of  his 
patience,  and  the  old  road  was  doomed  to  destruc 
tion.  Nor  was  Jeff  satisfied  until  three  dilapidated 
flat  cars  loaded  with  Mexicans  and  tools  were  started 
over  the  line  to  the  coal  fields.  Then  he  turned 
with  a  sigh  under  the  "Watch  Us  Grow"  sign  and 
went  into  his  private  office,  where  an  accumulation 
of  mining  business  awaited  him. 

But  his  sense  of  triumph  was  short-lived.  The 
week  had  not  ended  before  advices  of  a  disquieting 
nature  reached  him  from  Denver  and  Pueblo  of  a 
considerable  activity  in  the  stock  of  the  Denver 
and  California.  This  information  in  itself  was 
not  surprising,  for  during  the  past  year  the  rate- 
war  and  the  unsettled  condition  of  the  country  had 
made  the  stock  of  the  road  particularly  vulnerable 
to  manipulation?  But  back  of  this  movement, 
Symonds,  the  General  Manager  of  the  road,  one  of 
Wray's  staunchest  supporters,  thought  he  detected 
powerful  influences.  Rumors  of  a  more  startling 
character  had  transpired,  signifying  the  transfer 
of  large  blocks  of  the  stock  to  Eastern  investors 
which  seriously  threatened  the  control  of  those  in 
power.  Other  men,  men  of  the  directorate,  Jeff 
discovered,  also  showed  signs  of  apprehension.  A 
reorganization  of  the  road  might  mean  anything  — 
to  Jeff  it  meant  ruin,  if  the  new  stockholders  were 
in  any  way  identified  with  the  Chicago  and  Utah. 
Was  this  Bent's  crowd?  For  the  first  time  Wray 
really  appreciated  the  lengths  to  which  his  enemies 
were  prepared  to  go  to  accomplish  his  downfall. 

257 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


He  knew  that  they  had  already  spent  large  sums 
and  had  used  all  their  influence  in  completing  their 
control  of  the  Denver  and  Western,  but  a  control  of 
the  Denver  and  California !  It  was  simply  incredible ! 

Letters  from  the  banks  were  still  more  disquiet 
ing.  Conditions,  they  wrote,  were  so  unsatisfactory 
throughout  the  West  that  their  boards  of  directors 
had  thought  it  advisable  to  call  their  loans  on  the 
stock  of  the  Denver  and  Saguache  Railroad  Com 
pany.  The  uncertainty  of  the  development  of 
the  Saguache  Company's  properties,  owing  to  the 
imperfection  of  their  railroad  connections,  made  this 
course  necessary  until  they  secured  definite  and 
satisfactory  assurances  as  to  the  completion  of  the 
Saguache  Short  Line  and  the  value  of  its  contracts 
with  the  Denver  and  California  Railroad  Company. 
The  receipt  of  these  letters  in  the  same  mail  was  a 
coincidence  which  showed  Jeff  that,  in  spite  of  all 
assurances  to  the  contrary,  his  friends  were  weak 
ening  under  fire  and  that  the  enemy  had  invaded  his 
own  country.  They  meant,  in  short,  that  unless 
he  could  meet  the  loans  at  once  —  eight  hundred 
thousand  dollars  on  stock  really  worth  two  millions 
and  a  half  —  those  securities  would  fall  into  the 
hands  of  the  Amalgamated  people. 

Eight  hundred  thousand  dollars!  It  seemed  a 
prodigious  sum  of  money  now.  The  "Lone  Tree" 
would  bring  that  in  the  open  market — of  course,  but 
he  and  Pete  could  not  sell  the  "Lone  Tree."  It 
was  the  backbone  of  his  entire  financial  position ! 
Really  alarmed  at  the  sudden  disastrous  turn  the 

258 


COMBAT 


company's  affairs  had  taken,  he  called  a  meeting 
of  Mulrennan,  Larry  Berkely,  Weigel,  Willoughby, 
and  other  available  directors,  and  then  hurried  to 
Denver  to  see  his  friends  in  the  D.  &  C. 

Other  disappointments  awaited  him  there.  Sy- 
monds,  and  Shackelton,  the  vice-president,  advised 
him  for  the  sake  of  his  head,  as  well,  perhaps,  as 
for  their  own,  to  compromise  with  his  enemies  if 
he  could.  Until  more  light  was  shed  as  to  the  new 
ownership  of  the  D.  &  C.  they  could  make  him  no 
further  promises  of  assistance  either  moral  or 
financial.  He  argued  with  them,  pleaded  with 
them  at  least  for  some  pledge  on  the  part  of  the 
road  with  which  he  could  reassure  the  banks.  They 
were  powerless,  they  said.  Their  contracts,  of 
course,  would  be  a  basis  for  a  suit  even  under  a  new 
management.  They  could  —  or  would  do  noth 
ing  more. 

A  suit?  Jeff  knew  what  that  meant  —  inter 
minable  legal  proceedings,  while  the  ties  of  the 
Saguache  Short  Line  rotted  under  the  rails,  and 
washouts  in  the  summer  tore  the  roadbed  to  pieces; 
it  meant  the  shutting  down  of  his  coal  mines,  the 
abandonment  of  his  lumber  camps,  the  complete 
isolation  of  his  mines  and  smelter,  which,  if  they 
did  business  at  all,  must  do  it  under  all  kinds  of 
disadvantages. 

There  was  only  one  thing  left  to  do,  and  that  was 
to  finish  the  Short  Line  and  put  it  into  operation. 
Then,  perhaps,  the  courts  would  uphold  him  and 
force  the  D.  &  C.  to  live  up  to  its  contracts  —  no 

259 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


matter  who  was  in  control.  But  how  was  he  to 
redeem  the  eight  hundred  thousand  in  stock?  He 
had  enough  available  capital  to  finish  the  Short 
Line,  but  not  enough  to  redeem  the  stock,  too. 
He  got  on  the  Denver  and  Western  sleeper  for  Kin- 
ney  that  night,  sore  in  mind  and  body.  He  was 
too  tired  even  to  think.  Larry  and  Pete  must 
help  him  now.  Perhaps  there  was  some  way.  He 
fell  into  a  troubled  sleep,  and  about  his  ears  Cor 
nelius  Bent's  railroad  mocked  at  him  in  noisy 
triumph. 

***** 

The  arrival  of  the  morning  train  from  Saguache 
was  an  event  in  Mesa  City.  There  were  but  two 
trains  a  day,  and  it  was  the  morning  train  which 
brought  the  mail  and  yesterday's  newspapers  from 
Denver.  For  obvious  reasons,  the  passenger  traf 
fic  was  small,  and,  as  almost  every  member  of  the 
Saguache  community  was  personally  known  to 
almost  every  citizen  of  Mesa  City,  the  greetings 
as  a  rule  were  short  and  laconic,  consisting  of  a 
rustic  nod  or  the  mere  mention  of  a  surname.  Most 
of  the  travelers  were  men  and  descended  from  the 
combination  baggage-smoker;  but  this  morning 
Bill  Wilkinson,  the  conductor  (and  brakeman), 
a  person  by  nature  taciturn,  appeared  upon  the 
platform  of  the  rear  coach  bearing  a  lady's  Eng 
lish  traveling  bag,  and  winked,  actually  winked, 
at  Ike  Matthews,  the  station  master,  who  was  wait 
ing  for  his  envelope  from  headquarters.  At  least 
eight  people  saw  that  wink  and  fully  eighteen  the 

260 


COMBAT 


handbag,  and,  when  a  pretty  lady  in  a  dove-gray 
traveling  suit  appeared  in  the  car  doorway  to  be 
helped  down  ceremoniously  to  the  station  plat 
form,  thirty-six  eyes  were  agog  and  thirty-six  ears 
were  open  to  learn  the  meaning  of  the  unusual  occur 
rence;  for  it  was  plainly  to  be  seen  that  the  visitor 
bore  every  mark  of  consequence  and  came  from  the 
East  —  surely  from  Denver  —  possibly  from  Chicago. 

They  saw  her  smile  her  thanks  to  Wilkinson, 
but  when  she  looked  rather  helplessly  about  her  and 
asked  for  a  "coupe"  or  "station  wagon"  a  snigger, 
immediately  suppressed,  arose  from  the  younger 
persons  in  the  audience.  The  firm  hand  of  Ike 
Matthews  now  took  control  of  the  situation. 

"Do  you  want  the  hotel,  ma'am?"  he  said. 

"Yes,  I  think  so,"  said  the  lady.  "But  first  I 
want  to  find  Mr.  Jeff  Wray.  Can  you  tell  me  where 
I  can  see  him?" 

Her  eyes  searched  the  cottonwood  trees  along 
the  creek  opposite  the  station,  as  though  she  hoped 
to  find  him  there,  searching  in  the  wrong  direction 
for  the  town  which  had  been  described  to  her. 

"Yes,  ma'am,  if  you'll  come  with  me."  Ike 
took  up  the  bag  and  led  the  way  around  the  corner 
of  the  building  into  Main  Street,  while  the  engineer 
and  fireman  hung  out  of  their  cab  and  with  the 
crowd  on  the  platform  followed  the  slim  figure  with 
their  eyes  until  it  vanished  into  the  crowd  at  the 
post-office. 

A  clerk  in  the  outer  room  of  the  Development 
Company's  office  building  received  the  queer  pair. 

261 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


"Mr.  Wray  is  in,  ma'am,  but  he's  very  busy." 
He  looked  at  her  timidly.  "I  don't  know  whether 
he'll  see  you  or  not.  Who  shall  I  say?" 

The  lady  handed  him  a  card,  and,  as  he  dis* 
appeared,  she  fingered  in  her  pocketbook  for 
change  —  then,  after  a  glance  at  the  station  master, 
smiled  at  him  instead. 

"I'm  much  obliged  to  you,"  she  said  gratefully. 
"I  think  I'll  stay  here  now.  I'll  find  my  way  to 
the  hotel." 

Matthews  put  the  bag  on  a  desk,  awkwardly 
removed  his  hat  and  departed,  while  the  lady  sat 
and  waited. 

In  the  inner  office,  his  head  in  his  hands,  his 
elbows  on  his  desk,  his  brows  bent  over  some  papers, 
sat  Jeff,  trying  to  bring  cosmos  out  of  the  chaos 
of  his  affairs.  His  clerk  entered,  the  card  in  his 
hand,  wondering  whether  he  had  made  a  mistake. 
Hell  had  been  let  loose  in  the  Development  Com 
pany  for  a  week,  and  Mr.  Wray,  he  knew,  was  in 
no  humor  for  interruptions.  Jeff  looked  up  with 
a  frown. 

"Well  — what  is  it?" 

"A  lady  —  to  see  you." 

Jeff's  head  sank  into  his  papers  again. 

"Tell  her  I'm  busy!"  Then  he  looked  up  ir 
ritably.  "What  lady?  Who  is  she?  I  can't  see 
anybody  to-day." 

"I  don't  know.  She  doesn't  belong  around  here." 
And  he  dropped  the  card  on  the  desk. 

Jeff  picked  it  up  and  looked  at  it  with  a  scowl, 
262 


COMBAT 


then  started  in  amazement.  What  did  it  mean? 
He  rose  slowly,  his  brows  perplexed,  and  put  on  his 
coat. 

"Tell  her  to  come  in,"  he  said.  He  was  still 
standing  in  the  middle  of  the  room  looking  at  her 
card  when  Mrs.  Cheyne  entered. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE   LADY    IN   GRAY 

SHE   was    frankly   amused    at    his    bewilder 
ment. 

"Well,"  she  said  with  a  smile,  "you  don't 
seem  very  pleased  to  see  me." 

"I  —  it's  rather  sudden.  I  wasn't  exactly  cer 
tain  it  was  you."  He  took  her  hand  mechanically. 
"What  on  earth  are  you  doing  out  here?" 

"I've  come  to  see  you  —  traveled  two  thousand 
miles  to  tell  you  I'm  sorry." 

Jeff  brought  forth  a  chair. 

"Sorry?  What  for?  Oh,  yes,  we  quarreled,  didn't 
we?  I  remember.  It  was  my  fault.  But  I 
don't  understand  yet.  Are  you  on  your  way  to 
the  coast?" 

"  What  coast?  Oh,  no,"  coolly;  " I  rather  thought 
I'd  reached  my  destination,  but  perhaps  I'm  mis 
taken." 

Jeff  was  still  regarding  her  curiously,  as  if  he 
couldn't  be  quite  sure  he  was  not  dreaming.  He 
pulled  out  his  swivel  chair  and  sat  in  it,  facing 
her. 

"Now  tell  me  what  this  means,"  he  insisted  rather 
sternly. 

"I've  told  you.     I  want  to  convey  the  impression 
264 


THE  LADY  IN  GRAY 


of  begging  your  pardon.  Don't  I  do  it?  I've 
tried  so  hard.  Ugh!  Such  unspeakable  sleeping- 
cars  last  night!  Such  a  silly  little  train  this  morn 
ing  from  the  place  with  the  unpronounceable  name. 
I  had  no  idea  that  friendship  could  be  such  a  mar 
tyrdom!"  She  sighed.  "I  think  I  really  deserve 
something  after  this." 

He  found  that  he  was  smiling  in  spite  of  himself. 
"You  do,  I'm  sure,"  he  said  after  a  pause.  "'But 
I  don't  bear  you  any  grudge.  I  expected  too  much 
of  you,  I  guess.  I've  forgotten  that  long  ago.  I'm 
glad  to  see  you." 

"Really?"  she  drawled.  "You  convey  just  the 
opposite  idea.  You  ought  to  be  glad,  you  know. 
I've  never  been  so  tired  in  my  life.  That  train! 
Oh,  Jeff,  whatever  possessed  you  to  live  in  such  an 
outlandish  place?" 

"This  is  where  I  belong.  If  Mesa  City  is  outland 
ish,  then  I'm  outlandish,  too." 

"Love  me,  love  my  dog,"  she  laughed.  "I'd 
have  to  love  you  a  lot.  Perhaps  it  will  improve  on 
acquaintance."  She  crossed  her  feet  and  settled 
more  comfortably  in  her  chair,  while  Jeff  watched 
her  shrewdly. 

"You  can't  mean  you  want  to  stay  here?"  he 
asked. 

"I  don't  know.  That  depends  on  you.  I've 
told  you  the  sentimental  side  of  my  journey.  Act 
ually  I'm  a  practical  young  female,  with  a  prudent 
eye  for  an  investment."  And  when  her  companion 
smiled,  "Are  you  laughing  because  you  think  I'm 
18  265 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


not    practical  —  or    because    you    think    I'm    not 
prudent?" 

"I'd  hardly  call  you  either.  In  fact,  I  don't 
know  what  to  think.  You  don't  seem  to  belong, 
somehow." 

"Why  not?  Once  you  said  I  spoke  out  like 
Mesa  City." 

"But  you  don't  look  like  Mesa  City." 

"Horrors!"  preening  her  hair,  "I  hope  not." 

Jeff  leaned  back  in  his  chair  with  folded  arms 
and  examined  her  —  his  eyes  narrowing  critically. 
She  had  given  two  explanations  of  her  presence, 
neither  of  which  in  itself  seemed  sufficient.  The 
real  explanation,  he  was  forced  to  admit,  lay  in  the 
presence  itself.  She  bore  his  scrutiny  calmly,  ex 
amining  him  with  frank  interest. 

"What  is  it  you  don't  understand?"  she  asked 
him,  answering  the  question  in  his  eyes  with  an 
other.  "  Me?  Oh,  you'll  have  to  give  it  up. 
There  isn't  any  answer.  I'm  something  between 
a  sibyl  and  a  sphinx.  You  thought  you'd  guessed 
me  in  New  York,  but  you  hadn't,  you  see.  I'm 
neither  what  you  thought  I  was,  nor  what  you 
thought  I  ought  to  be.  I'm  the  spirit  of  Self- Will. 
I  do  as  I  choose.  I  thought  I'd  like  to  see  you, 
and  so  I  came  —  Voila" 

"I  don't  know  what  you  can  expect  here.  The 
accommodations  at  the  hotel " 

"Oh,  I  can  stand  anything  now  —  after  your 
trains " 

"You'll  be  bored  to  death." 
266 


THE  LADY  IN  GRAY 


"I'm  always  bored  to  death.  But,  then,  this 
place  may  have  the  charm  of  boring  me  in  an 
entirely  new  way.  After  all,"  she  sighed,  "I  might 
as  well  be  bored  here  as  at  home." 

Wray  got  up  without  speaking  and  walked  to 
the  window  which  overlooked  the  plains.  He 
stood  here  a  moment,  his  hands  behind  his  back, 
the  look  of  perplexity  deepening  on  his  face.  Some 
how  Rita  Cheyne  didn't  seem  accessory  to  the 
rather  grim  background  of  his  thoughts.  For  days 
he  had  been  acting  the  leading  part  in  what  now 
promised  to  be  a  tragedy.  Rita  belonged  to  sa 
tirical  comedy  or,  at  the  best,  to  the  polite  melo 
drama.  Something  of  this  she  suddenly  read  in 
his  attitude,  wondering  why  she  had  not  discerned 
it  before.  She  got  up  and  went  over  to 
him. 

"What  is  it,  Jeff?  You're  changed  somehow  out 
here.  You  seem  older,  bigger,  browner,  more 
thoughtful." 

"This  is  where  I  work,  Rita,"  he  said  with  a, 
slow  smile.  "In  New  York  we  Westerners  only 
play.  I  am  older  —  yes,  more  thoughtful,  too. 
I've  had  a  good  deal  to  worry  me ' 

"Yes,  I  know.  I  think  Cortland  Bent  has  been 
behaving  very  badly." 

Jeff  made  a  quick  gesture  of  protest. 

"I  didn't  mean  that,"  he  said  abruptly.  "My 
worries  are  business  worries." 

"Oh!     I    intruded." 

"Yes,  you  did.  But  I'm  glad  of  it  now.  I'm 
267 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


going  to  Hell  about  as  fast  as  a  man  can,  but  I 
might  as  well  do  it  comfortably." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  she  asked  in  alarm. 

"Your  relatives,  the  Bents.     They've  got  me  in 


a   corner." 


"Yes,  I  heard.     What  will  be  the  end  of  it?" 

Jeff  ran  a  finger  around  his  throat  with  a  sig 
nificant  gesture. 

"Won't  you  tell  me  about  it?" 

"It  wouldn't  interest  you.  It's  a  long  story. 
They  have  more  money  than  I  have.  That's  the 
amount  of  it." 

"I  thought  you  were  so  wealthy." 

"I  am.  But  I  can't  go  up  against  the  whole 
of  Wall  Street.  They've  cost  me  a  lot.  If  I  won 
this  fight  I'd  be  the  richest  man  west  of  the  Mis 
souri  River.  It  isn't  over  yet."  He  paced  the  room 
violently,  beginning  to  rant,  as  he  still  did  when 
to  talked  of  himself.  "No,  by  G — d!  not  yet. 
They've  got  to  come  to  me  in  the  end.  They  can't 
get  my  mine."  He  went  over  to  his  desk  and  took 
out  a  piece  of  ore.  "See  that,  Rita;  that  came  out 
of  'Lone  Tree'  only  yesterday.  They  may  get 
a  control  of  the  Denver  and  Saguache  and  even 
of  the  Development  Company,  but  they  can't  get 
the  'Lone  Tree.'  I  reckon  I  won't  starve." 

"But  how  can  they  get  the  Development  Com 
pany?" 

"The  banks  have  called  my  loans  —  oh,  you 
can't  understand.  If  I  don't  meet  them,  the  stock 
will  be  sold.  Bent's  crowd  will  buy  it." 

268 


THE  LADY  IN  GRAY 


"Of  course  I  don't  know  much  about  these  things, 
but  I  was  wondering  —  how  much  stock  is  there?" 

"Two  million  and  a  half.  I've  borrowed  eight 
hundred  thousand  dollars." 

She  looked  down,  turning  the  ferrule  of  her 
umbrella  on  the  toe  of  her  boot. 

"Suppose  some  one  else  bought  it?" 

"I  hadn't  thought  of  that.     Who?" 

"Me." 

Jeff  started  forward  in  his  chair,  his  eyes  blaz 
ing  —  then  he  took  a  step  or  two  away  from  her. 

"You?" 

She  nodded  pertly.  He  turned  and  looked  at 
her  over  his  shoulder.  Then,  with  a  warm  impulse, 
he  seized  both  of  her  hands  in  his  and  held  them 
tightly  in  his  own. 

"That's  white  of  you,  Rita.  You're  the  real 
thing.  I'll  swear  you  are  —  the  Real  Thing  — 
you've  got  sand,  too,  a  lot  of  it,  and  I  like  you  for 
it.  It's  worth  while  getting  in  a  hole  to  find  out 
who  your  friends  are.  I  won't  forget  this  soon." 

She  disengaged  her  hands. 

"Thanks,"  she  said  calmly.     "Do  you  agree?" 

"Agree?     To  what?" 

"To  let  me  buy  that  stock?" 

He  straightened  and  turned  to  his  desk,  uncer 
tainly  fingering  some  papers  there.  He  was  silent 
so  long  that  she  repeated  the  question. 

"No,"  he  said  at  last. 

"Why  do  you  say  that?" 

"I  don't  want  you  to." 
269 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


"I  don't  understand.  In  New  York  you  were 
willing  to  have  me  in  with  you.  Why  do  you 
object  now?  Any  security  your  banks  will  take 
ought  to  be  good  enough  for  me.  Any  security 
my  cousin  Cornelius  Bent  wants  to  buy  ought  to 
be  worth  having." 

"It    is  — to    him." 

"Then  why  not  to  me?  —  it's  all  in  the  family." 

He  looked  at  her  blankly  a  moment  and  then 
laughed  and  shook  his  head. 

"No  —  there's  too  much  risk." 

"I  expected  to  risk  something." 

He  sat  down  in  his  chair  before  her  and  put  his 
hands  over  hers. 

"See  here,  Rita.  You'll  have  to  let  me  think 
this  thing  out  and  take  my  own  time.  I  never 
put  my  friends  into  anything  I  don't  believe  in 
myself.  If  you're  looking  for  an  investment  here 
I'll  find  you  something.  I  know  a  dozen  good 
things." 

"You  can't  prevent  my  getting  that  stock  if  I 
want  it,"  she  broke  in. 

"The  Amalgamated  can." 

"I'll  go  to  the  General  and  tell  him  I  insist  on 
having  it.  He's  a  little  afraid  of  me." 

He  laughed.  "He  ought  to  be.  I  am,  too." 
Jeff  rose  and  took  up  his  hat  and  Rita  Cheyne's 
traveling  bag.  "There's  one  thing  sure:  I'm 
not  going  to  talk  about  this  any  more  —  not  now. 
You're  tired.  I've  got  to  get  you  fixed  up  some 
how.  You  know  I  started  building  a  place  up  in 

270 


THE  LADY  IN  GRAY 


the  canon,  but  it's  not  finished  yet.  Mrs.  Bren- 
nan  is  away.  There's  nothing  for  it  but  a  hotel, 
I  guess." 

"Oh,  I  don't  care.  I'm  not  going  to  be  discour 
aged.  I  warn  you  I  always  have  my  own  way  — 
in  the  end  —  in  all  things." 

He  chose  to  disregard  the  significance  of  the  re 
mark  and  showed  her  out.  On  their  way  up  the 
street  the  spirit  moved  him  to  apologize  again. 

"There's  a  bathroom  at  the  Kinney  House. 
I'd  better  take  you  there.  It's  pretty  well  kept. 
Camilla  stayed  there  once.  I  wish  she  was  here." 

"You  do?"  quizzically. 

"Why  — yes." 

"Then  why  don't  you  have  her  here?"  she  asked 
suddenly. 

A  shade  passed  over  Jeff's  face.  "We  went 
East  for  the  winter,"  he  said  slowly.  "I  had  to 
come  back  here.  My  wife  likes  it  in  New  York. 
It  —  it  wasn't  advisable  for  her  to  come." 

"Thanks,  I  knew  that  before,"  she  said  slowly. 
Further  conversation  was  interrupted  by  their  ar 
rival  at  the  Kinney  House,  a  frame  structure 
at  the  upper  end  of  Main  Street,  where  it  stood  in 
lonely  dignity,  quite  dwarfing  its  nearest  neighbors, 
which  clambered  part  of  the  way  up  the  slope  and 
then  paused  —  as  though  in  sudden  diffidence  be 
fore  the  majesty  of  its  three-storied  preeminence. 
It  wore  at  this  time  a  coat  of  yellow  paint  of  a  some 
what  bilious  hue,  but  its  cornices,  moldings,  and 
the  rather  coquettish  ornaments  about  the  "Ladies 

271 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


Entrance"  were  painted  white.  The  letters  C-A-F-E 
(without  the  accent),  painted  ostentatiously  upon 
a  window,  gave  a  touch  of  modernity,  and  the  words 
"Ladies'  Parlor"  advised  the  wearied  traveler  that 
here  was  to  be  found  a  haven  for  the  females  of 
refined  and  retiring  dispositions.  The  sound  of 
a  piano  was  heard  from  that  chaste  apartment  as 
Mrs.  Cheyne  registered  her  long  angular  signature 
beneath  that  of  "Pat  O'Connell,  Santa  Fe";  and 
the  strains  of  "The  Maiden's  Prayer"  came  forth, 
followed  presently  by  the  "Carnival  of  Venice." 
Mrs.  Cheyne  smiled  her  tolerance. 

"Do  you  want  a  room  by  the  day,  week  or  month, 
ma'am?"  asked  the  clerk. 

"I'm  a  little  uncertain,"  she  said;  "I  may  be  here 
only  for  a  day  or  two  or  I  may  be  here"  —  and  she 
glanced  at  Jeff  —  "for  a  month  —  or  even  longer." 

"Mrs.  Cheyne  is  looking  into  some  mining  prop 
erties,"  said  Jeff  with  an  amused  air.  But  when 
his  companion  followed  the  clerk  up  the  stairway, 
jangling  a  key  with  a  huge  brass  tag,  Jeff  departed 
thoughtfully.  So  far  as  he  could  see,  Mrs.  Cheyne 
had  come  to  Mesa  City  with  the  express  intention 
of  playing  the  devil.  The  magnificence  of  her 
'financial  offer,  while  it  dazzled,  had  not  blinded  him. 
But  he  was  truly  bewildered  by  her  audacity,  dis 
armed  by  the  recklessness  of  her  amiability.  She 
always  got  what  she  wanted  in  the  end,  she  said. 
What  was  it  she  wanted?  Himself?  He  couldn't 
help  thinking  so,  but  it  made  him  feel  like  a  fool. 
In  the  East  she  had  led  him  or  as  she  led  other  men 


THE  LADY  IN  GRAY 

r 

on,  for  the  mere  joy  of  the  game,  and  he  had  followed 
her  cautiously,  aware  of  his  own  insufficiency  but 
delighting  in  the  opportunities  her  society  afforded 
him  to  even  his  accounts  with  Camilla.  Both  had 
called  their  relation  friendship  for  want  of  a  better 
word,  but  Jeff  knew  that  friendship  had  another 
flavor.  The  night  when  he  had  last  visited  her  he 
had  played  his  cards  and  had  called  that  bluff. 
But  to-day  he  realized  that  she  had  seen  his  raise 
and  had  now  removed  the  limit  from  the  game. 
From  now  on  it  was  to  be  for  table  stakes,  with 
Rita  Cheyne  dealing  the  cards. 

And  what  did  her  amazing  financial  proposition 
mean?  Could  it  be  genuine?  He  knew  that  she 
was  very  wealthy  —  wealthy  in  the  New  York 
way  —  but  it  was  not  in  his  experience  that  sen 
timent  and  finance  had  anything  in  common.  If 
her  offers  were  genuine,  her  confidence  in  his  finan 
cial  integrity  and  in  him  was  extraordinary.  If 
they  were  not,  her  confidence  in  herself  was  like 
wise  extraordinary. 

Jeff  smiled  to  himself  a  little  uneasily.  What 
would  Mesa  City  be  saying  about  the  unexplained 
arrival  of  a  captivating  female  from  New  York 
who  sought  him  out  at  his  office  and  whose  claims 
upon  his  society  (unless  he  fled)  could  not  be  denied. 
There  was  no  chance  for  him  to  flee,  even  if  he 
wished,  the  condition  of  his  business  requiring  his 
presence  here  for  at  least  a  few  days,  and  the  trunk 
check  in  his  hand  reminded  him  that  he  had  prom 
ised  Rita  Cheyne  her  trunk  immediately,  so  that 

273 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


she  might  ride  with  him  that  very  afternoon.  What 
was  to  be  done?  Her  ingenuity  had  always  sur 
prised  him,  and  her  resources  were  of  infinite  variety. 
To  tell  the  truth,  he  was  afraid  of  her,  and  was 
willing  for  the  first  time  to  acknowledge  it  frankly 
to  himself.  She  interested  him  —  had  always  in 
terested  him  —  but  it  seemed  to  be  more  the  interest 
of  curiosity  than  that  of  any  real  affiliation.  To 
be  with  Rita  Cheyne  was  like  going  to  a  three-ring 
circus,  where  one  is  apt  to  lose  sight  of  the  refined 
performance  on  the  stage  just  in  front  in  bewilder 
ment  over  the  acrobatic  feats  of  the  lady  in  spangles 
at  one  side.  What  was  her  real  reason  for  coming 
West  to  Mesa  City?  He  gave  it  up  and  turned  in 
at  the  office,  gave  the  trunk  check  to  a  clerk,  and 
in  a  moment  had  taken  up  his  business  at  the  point 
where  Mrs.  Cheyne  had  interrupted  him. 

Eight  hundred  thousand  dollars!  If  the  Amal 
gamated  took  up  that  stock,  General  Bent's  crowd 
would  have  control  of  the  Development  Company 
and  the  Denver  and  Saguache  Railroad  Company. 
If  Rita  Cheyne's  offers  were  genuine  —  if  he  chose 
to  use  her  money  to  redeem  that  stock  —  he  could 
place  himself  on  some  kind  of  financial  footing, 
could  entrench  himself  for  a  long  battle  over  the 
railroad  connections,  which  he  might  eventually 
win.  There  was  a  chance.  He  did  not  dare  to 
call  in  Mulrennan  to  talk  the  matter  over.  Pete 
had  been  catching  at  straws  for  a  week,  and  Jeff 
knew  what  his  advice  would  be.  His  superstitious 
mind  would  look  on  Mrs.  Cheyne's  visit  as  a  direct 

274 


THE  LADY  IN  GRAY 


interposition  of  Providence,  as  a  message  and  an 
injunction.  Jeff  began  to  think  himself  mad  not 
to  have  accepted  her  proposition  at  once.  It 
dangled  before  him  temptingly  —  but  he  let  it 
hang  there  like  ripe  fruit  upon  the  vine,  hesitating 
to  reach  forth  and  seize.  He  could  not  believe  it 
was  real.  It  was  "too  aisy,"  as  Pete  would  have 
said.  Was  he  losing  his  nerve?  Was  it  that  the 
last  victories  of  his  enemies  had  sapped  some  of  his 
old  assurance,  or  had  he  suddenly  developed  a 
conscience?  He  put  his  head  in  his  hands  and  tried 
to  think.  If  he  won  his  fight  he  could  double 
Rita  Cheyne's  money  in  a  year.  If  he  lost  —  and 
he  had  to  think  of  that  more  and  more  each  day  — 
the  stock  might  not  be  worth  the  paper  it  was  writ 
ten  on.  Rita  knew  all  this,  but  she  still  believed 
in  him  —  more  even  than  he  believed  in  himself. 
Women  were  funny.  He  couldn't  understand,  un 
less  she  had  some  motive  which  had  not  been  revealed 
to  him.  There  would  be  a  string  of  some  sort  to  that 
extraordinary  proposition. 

He  got  up  at  last  and  sent  a  message  to  the  Home 
Ranch,  ordering  two  horses  to  be  sent  to  his  office 
at  three  o'clock. 


CHAPTER  XX 

La  Femme  Propose 

fTT^HE  wagon-road  to  the  "Lone  Tree"   skirted 

;       the  mountains  for  a  way  and    then    wound 

through  a  nick  in  the  foothills  into  a  level 

vale    of    natural    parks,    meadows,    and    luxuriant 

grass,  bordered  by  pines  and  cottonwoods,  beneath 

which  tiny  streams  meandered  leisurely  down  to 

the  plains  below. 

Mrs.  Cheyne  emerged  from  the  scrub-oak  delight 
edly. 

"It's  like  a  Central  Park  for  Brobdingnags,"  she 
cried.  "I  feel  as  though  Apache  ought  to  have 
seven-league  horseshoes.  As  a  piece  of  landscape 
gardening  it's  remarkably  well  done,  for  Nature  is 
so  apt  to  make  mistakes  —  only  Art  is  unerring." 
She  breathed  deep  and  sighed.  "Here  it  seems 
Nature  and  Art  are  one.  But  it's  all  on  such  a  big 
scale.  It  makes  me  feel  so  tiny  —  I'm  not  sure  that 
I  like  it,  Jeff  Wray.  I  don't  fancy  being  an  insect. 
And  the  mountain  tops!  Will  they  never  come 
any  nearer?  We've  been  riding  toward  them  for  an 
hour,  but  they  seem  as  far  away  as  ever.  I  know 
now  why  it  was  that  I  liked  you  —  because  your 
eyes  only  mirrored  big  things  —  nobody  can  have 
a  mountain  for  a  friend  without  joining  the  immortal 

276 


LA  FEMME  PROPOSE 


Fellowship.  It  makes  it  so  easy  to  scorn  lesser 
things  —  like  bridge  and  teas.  Imagine  a  mountain 
at  an  afternoon  tea!" 

Jeff  rode  beside  her,  answering  in  monosyllables. 
The  road  now  climbed  a  wood  of  tall  oaks,  rock- 
pines,  and  spruces,  through  which  the  sunlight 
filtered  uncertainly,  dappling  fern  and  moss  with 
vagrant  amber.  Somewhere  near  them  a  stream 
gushed  among  the  rocks  and  a  breeze  crooned  in 
the  boughs.  Rita  Cheyne  stopped  talking  and 
listened  for  she  knew  not  what.  There  was  mystery 
here  —  the  voice  of  the  primeval,  calling  to  her 
down  the  ages.  She  glanced  at  Jeff,  who  sat  loosely 
on  his  horse,  his  gaze  on  the  trail.  She  had  be 
lieved  he  shared  her  own  emotions,  but  she  knew 
by  the  look  in  his  eyes  that  his  thoughts  were  else 
where.  She  spoke  so  suddenly  that  he  looked  up, 
startled. 

"Why  don't  you  say  something?  This  place 
makes  me  think  about  Time  and  Death  —  the  two 
things  I  most  abhor.  Come,  let's  get  out  of 
here." 

Apache  sprang  forward  up  the  trail  at  the  bidding 
of  his  mistress,  whose  small  heels  pressed  his  flanks, 
again  and  again,  as  she  urged  him  on  and  out  into 
the  afternoon  sunlight  beyond,  while  Jeff  thundered 
after.  He  caught  her  at  the  top  of  a  sand-ridge 
half  a  mile  away,  where  they  pulled  their  horses 
down  to  a  walk. 

"What  was  the  matter?"  said  Jeff.  "You  rode 
as  if  the  Devil  was  after  you." 

277 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


"Oh,  no  — I'm  not  afraid  of  the  Devil.  It's 
the  mystery  of  the  Infinite.  That  wood  —  why 
don't  the  dead  oak-branches  fall?  They  look  like 
gibbets.  Ugh!"  She  shuddered  and  laughed. 
"Didn't  you  feel  it?" 

"Feel  what?" 

"Spooky." 

"No.  I  camped  there  once  when  I  was  pros 
pecting.  That  stream  you  jumped  was  Dead  Man's 
Creek." 

"He  must  be  there  yet,  the  dead  man.  It  was 
like  a  tomb.  Who  was  he?" 

"A  soldier.  He  deserted  from  Fort  Garland  and 
was  killed  by  some  Mexicans.  They  buried  him 
under  a  pile  of  stones." 

"What  a  disagreeable  place.  It's  like  a  cemetery 
for  dead  hopes.  I  won't  go  back;  you'll  have  to 
take  me  around  some  other  way." 

"What  are  you  afraid  of?" 

"I'm  afraid  of  melancholy  —  I  hate  unhappiness. 
I  was  born  to  be  amused  —  I  won't  be  unhappy," 
she  said  almost  fiercely.  "Why  should  I  be?  I 
have  everything  in  the  world  that  most  people 
want.  If  I  see  anything  I  want  and  haven't  got, 
I  go  and  get  it." 

"You're  lucky." 

She  shrugged.  "So  people  say.  I  do  as  I  please. 
I  always  have  and  always  will.  You  were  surprised 
to  see  me  here.  I  told  you  why  I  came.  I  wanted 
to  see  you.  You  were  the  only  person  in  New  York 
who  did  not  bore  me  to  extinction.  If  it  gives  me 

278 


LA  FEMME  PROPOSE 


pleasure  to  be  here,  this  is  the  place  where  I  ought 
to  be.  That's  logical,  isn't  it?  " 

"It  sounds  all  right.  But  you  won't  stay  here 
long,"  he  said. 

"Why  not?" 

"You  couldn't  stand  it.  There's  nothing  to 
do  but  ride." 

"I'd  rather  ride  than  do  anything  else." 

Jeff  looked  straight  forward  over  his  horse's  ears, 
his  eyes  narrowing,  his  lips  widening  in  a  smile. 

"  Well  —  if  you  don't  see  what  you  want  —  ask 
for  it,"  he  said  slowly. 

"I  will.  Just  now,  however,  I  don't  want  any 
thing  except  an  interest  in  your  business.  You're 
going  to  let  me  have  it,  aren't  you,  Jeff?  You'd 
take  some  stranger  in.  Why  not  me?  I'm  the  most 
innocuous  stockholder  that  ever  lived.  I  always 
do  whatever  anybody  tells  me  to  do." 

"You  don't  realize  the  situation.  I've  told  you 
I'm  in  a  dangerous  position.  With  that  stock  in 
my  possession  again,  all  my  holdings  would  be 
intact  and  I  might  stand  a  long  siege  —  or  perhaps 
be  able  to  make  a  favorable  compromise  —  but 
there's  no  certainty  of  it.  I  don't  know  what 
they've  got  up  their  sleeves.  As  it  is,  I  stand  to 
lose  the  greater  part  of  my  own  money,  but  I'm 
not  going  to  lose  yours." 

"I  don't  believe  you're  going  to  lose.  I'm  not 
quite  a  fool.  Those  papers  you  showed  me  don't 
prove  anything.  The  Development  Company  has 
two  hundred  thousand  acres  of  land  worth  twenty 

279 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


dollars  an  acre  and  the  coal  fields  besides.  That's 
good  enough  security  for  me." 

"It  would  be  good  enough  security  for  any  one 
if  we  had  our  connection.  I  could  make  you  a  lot 
of  money."  He  broke  off  impatiently.  "See  here, 
Rita,  don't  press  me  in  this  matter,  I'd  rather  wait 
a  while.  I've  got  a  few  days  before  those  notes  are 
due.  Something  may  turn  up  — — " 

"Which  will  let  me  out  —  thanks,  I'm  not  going 
to  be  left  out.  I  know  what  you've  done  in  these 
mountains  and  in  this  country,  and  I  believe  in 
you  as  much  as  I  ever  did.  I'd  like  you  to  let 
me  help  you,  and  I'm  not  afraid  of  losing  —  but 
if  I  do  lose,  it  won't  kill  me.  Perhaps  I'm  richer 
than  you  think  I  am.  I'm  willing  to  wait.  You'll 
be  rich  again  some  day,  and  I'll  take  my  chances. 
They  can't  keep  you  down,  Jeff  —  not  for  long." 

Jeff  thrust  forth  a  hand  and  put  it  over  hers. 

"You're  solid  gold,  Rita,  and  you're  the  best 
friend  I  ever  had.  I  can't  say  more  than  that." 

She  smiled  happily.  "I've  been  hoping  you'd 
say  that.  It's  worth  coming  out  here  for.  I  want 
to  prove  it,  though  —  and  I  hope  you'll  let  me." 

The  road  now  turned  upward  toward  the  railroad 
grade.  As  they  reached  the  crest  of  the  hill  Jeff 
pointed  to  the  left  at  the  mills  and  the  smelter 
buildings  hanging  tier  on  tier  down  the  side  of  the 
mountain.  Below  in  a  depression  of  the  hills  a 
lake  had  formed,  surrounded  by  banks  of  reddish 
earth.  The  whole  scene  was  surpassing  ugly, 
and  the  only  dignity  it  possessed  was  lent  by  the 

280 


LA  FEMME  PROPOSE 


masses  of  tall  black  stacks,  above  which  hung  a 
pall  of  smoke  and  yellow  gases.  Rita  Cheyne  gasped. 
"So  that's  the  bone  of  contention?  I  thought  it 
would  be  something  like  the  New  York  Public 
Library  or  the  Capitol  at  Washington!  Why,  Jeff, 
it's  nothing  but  a  lot  of  rusty  iron  sheds!" 

"Yes,"  he  drawled,  "we  don't  go  in  much  for 
architecture  out  here.  It's  what's  inside  those 
sheds  that  counts.  We've  got  every  known  appli 
ance  for  treating  ore  that  was  ever  patented,  with 
a  wrinkle  or  two  the  Amalgamated  hasn't." 

They  rode  around  the  lake  while  Wray  explained 
everything  to  her,  and  then  up  the  hill  toward  the 
trestles  and  ore-dumps  of  the  "Lone  Tree"  mine. 
Wray's  struggles  for  a  right-of-way  to  the  markets 
of  the  country  showed  no  reflection  here.  From 
two  small  holes  in  the  mountain  side  cars  emerged 
at  intervals  upon  their  small  tracks  and  dumped 
their  loads  at  the  mill,  from  which  there  came  a 
turmoil  of  titanic  forces.  Jeff  offered  to  show  his 
companion  the  workings,  but  she  refused. 

"No,  I  think  not,"  she  said.  "It's  too  noisy 
here.  I  haven't  finished  talking  to  you,  and  I  want 
to  ride." 

And  so  they  turned  their  horses'  heads  into 
another  trail,  which  descended  among  the  rocks 
and  scrub-oak,  after  a  while  emerging  at  the  edge 
of  a  great  sand-dune  which  the  wind  had  tossed 
up  from  the  valley  below  —  a  hill  of  sand  a  thousand 
feet  high,  three  miles  wide  and  six  miles  long,  a 
mountain  range  in  miniature,  in  which  trees,  rocks, 
19  281 


THE" FORBIDDEN  WAY 


and  part  of  a  mountain  were  obliterated.  Even  the 
Great  Desert  had  not  presented  to  Rita  Cheyne 
such  a  scene  of  desolation.  Their  horses  stopped, 
sniffed  the  breeze,  and  snorted.  Jeff  pointed  into 
the  air,  where  some  vultures  wheeled. 

Mrs.  Cheyne  shuddered.  "It  looks  like  Paradise 
Lost.  We're  not  going  there?" 

"No  —  I  only  wanted  you  to  see  it.  There's 
a  thousand  million  dollars  of  gold  in  that  sand- 
pile." 

"Let  it  stay  there.  I  think  it's  a  frightfully  un 
pleasant  place.  Why  do  you  show  me  all  these 
things  when  all  I  want  to  do  is  to  talk?  "  She  turned 
her  horse's  head,  and  they  followed  a  slight  trail 
between  groves  of  aspen  trees,  a  shimmering  love 
liness  of  transparent  color.  "You're  not  giving 
me  much  encouragement,  Jeff.  You  didn't  believe 
in  my  friendship  in  New  York,  but  you're  trying 
your  best  to  keep  me  from  proving  it  here." 

"I  do  believe  it  now.     Didn't  I  tell  you  so?" 

"Yes,  but  you  don't  show  it.  What  do  you  think 
my  enemies  in  New  York  are  saying  of  my  disap 
pearance?  What  will  they  say  when  they  know  I've 
come  out  here  to  you?  Not  that  I  care  at  all. 
Only  I  think  that  you  ought  to  consider  it." 

"I  do,"  he  said  briefly.  "Why  do  you  make  such 
a  sacrifice?" 

"I  never  make  sacrifices,"  she  said,  eluding  him 
skillfully,  "even  for  my  friends.  Don't  make  that 
mistake.  I've  told  you  I  came  because  I'd  rather 
be  here  than  in  New  York.  If  I  heard  that  your 

282 


LA  FEMME  PROPOSE 


financial  enemies  were  trying  to  ruin  you,  that  only 
made  me  the  more  anxious  to  come.  Besides,  I 
had  an  idea  that  you  might  be  lonely.  Was  I  right ?" 

"Yes  — lam." 

"Was,  you  mean." 

"Yes  —  was,"  he  corrected.  "I've  been  pretty 
busy,  of  course,  night  as  well  as  day,  but  after  New 
York  this  place  is  pretty  quiet." 

"Did  you  miss  me?" 

"Yes,"  frankly,  "I  did  —  you  and  I  seem  to  get 
on  pretty  well.  I  think  we  always  will." 

"So  do  I.  I've  always  wondered  if  I'd  ever  meet 
a  man  who  hadn't  been  spoiled.  And  I  was  just 
about  ready  to  decide  that  he  didn't  exist  when 
you  came  along.  The  discovery  restored  my  faith 
in  human  nature.  It  was  all  the  more  remarkable, 
too,  because  you  were  married.  Most  married  men 
are  either  smug  and  conceited,  or  else  dejected  and 
apprehensive.  In  either  case  they're  quite  useless 
for  my  purpose." 

"What  is  your  purpose?"  he  asked. 

"Psychological  experiment,"  she  returned  glibly. 
"Some  naturalists  study  beetles,  others  butterflies 
and  moths.  I  like  to  study  men." 

"Have  you  got  me  classified?" 

"Yes  —  you're  my  only  reward  for  years  of  patient 
scientific  endeavor.  The  mere  fact  that  you're 
married  makes  no  difference,  except  that  as  a 
specimen  you're  unique.  Do  you  wonder  that  I 
don't  want  to  lose  you?" 

"I'm  not  running  away  very  fast." 
283 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


"No.  But  the  fact  remains  that  you're  not  my 
property,"  she  answered,  frowning.  "I  can't  see 
—  I've  never  been  able  to  see  —  why  you  ever 
married,  any  more  than  I  can  see  why  I  did.  I'm 
quite  sure  that  you  would  have  made  me  an  admir 
able  husband,  just  as  I'm  sure  that  I  would  have 
made  you  an  admirable  wife.  You  don't  mind  my 
speaking  plainly,  do  you?  I'm  thinking  out  loud. 
I  don't  do  it  as  a  rule.  It's  a  kind  of  luxury  that 
one  doesn't  dare  to  indulge  in  often.  I  have  so 
many  weak  points  in  which  you  are  strong,  and  I 
have  a  few  strong  ones  in  which  you  are  weak,  we 
could  help  each  other.  You  could  make  something 
of  me,  I'm  sure.  I'm  not  as  useless  as  I  seem  to 
be;  sometimes  I  think  I  have  in  me  the  material 
to  accomplish  great  things  —  if  I  only  knew  where 
to  begin,  or  if  I  had  some  one  who  is  in  the  habit 
of  accomplishing  them  to  show  me  how.  That 
is  why  I  wanted  to  help  you.  It  struck  me  as  a 
step  in  the  right  direction." 

"It  was,"  he  ventured,  "only  it  was  too  big  a 
step." 

"One  can't  do  big  things  by  halves,"  she  insisted. 
"Money  is  the  only  thing  I  have  that  you  lack.  It 
is  the  only  thing  that  I  can  give  —  that's  why  I  want 
to  give  it  —  so  that  you  can  use  it  as  a  measure  of 

my  sincerity.    I'd  like  to  make  you  happy,  too " 

She  paused,  and  her  voice  sank  a  note.  "Why 
should  you  be  unhappy?  You  don't  deserve  it.  I 
know  you  don't.  I  haven't  any  patience  with  women 
who  don't  know  a  good  thing  when  they  have  it." 

284 


LA  FEMME  PROPOSE 


"Perhaps  I'm  not  as  good  a  thing  as  I  seem.  You 
yourself  are  not  beyond  making  mistakes,  Rita." 

"Oh,  Cheyne?  I  didn't  make  that  mistake, 
Cheyne  did.  He  thought  marriage  was  a  senti 
mental  holiday,  when  everybody  nowadays  knows 
that  it's  only  a  business  contract.  Don't  let's 
talk  of  Cheyne.  I  can  still  hear  the  melancholy 
wail  of  his  'cello.  I  want  to  forget  all  of  that. 
You  have  helped  me  to  do  it.  I've  been  looking 
at  you  from  every  angle,  Jeff  Wray,  and  I  find  that 
I  approve  of  you.  Your  wife  has  other  views. 
She  married  you  out  of  pique.  You  married  her 
because  she  was  the  only  woman  in  sight.  You 
put  a  halo  around  her  head,  dressed  her  up  in  tinsel, 
set  her  on  a  gilt  pedestal,  and  made  believe  that 
she  was  a  goddess.  It  was  a  pretty  game,  but  it 
was  only  a  game  after  all.  Imagine  making  a  saint 
of  a  woman  of  this  generation!  People  did  —  back 
in^the  Dark  Ages  —  but  the  ages  must  have  been 
very  dark,  or  they'd  never  have  made  such  a  mistake. 
I've  often  thought  that  saints  must  be  very  uncom 
fortable,  because  they  were  human  once.  Your 
wife  was  human.  She  still  is.  She  didn't  want 
to  be  worshipped.  She  hadn't  forgotten  my  cousin 
Cortland,  you  see " 

"What's  the  use  of  all  this,  Rita?"  said  Wray 
hoarsely.  "I  don't  mind  your  knowing.  Every 
body  else  seems  to.  But  why  talk  about  it? 
Let  sleeping  dogs  lie." 

She  waved  her  hand  in  protest.  "One  of  the 
dearest  privileges  of  friendship  is  to  say  as  many 

285 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


disagreeable  things  as  one  likes.  I'm  trying  to 
show  you  how  impossible  you  are  to  a  woman  of 
her  type,  and  how  impossible  your  wife  is  to  you." 

"I'd  rather  you  wouldn't." 

"She  marries  you  to  prove  to  my  cousin  Cortland 
that  he  isn't  the  only  man  in  the  world,  and  then 
spends  an  entire  winter  in  New  York  proving  to 
everybody  that  he  is.  There  hasn't  been  a  day 
since  you  left  that  they  haven't  been  together, 
riding,  motoring,  going  to  the  theatre  and  opera. 
It  has  reached  the  point  when  people  can't  think 
of  asking  one  of  them  to  dinner  without  including 
the  other.  If  you  don't  know  all  this,  it's  time  you 
did.  And  I  take  it  as  a  melancholy  privilege  to 
be  the  one  to  tell  you  of  it.  It's  too  bad.  No 
clever  woman  can  allow  herself  to  be  the  subject 
of  gossip,  and  when  she  does  she  has  a  motive 
for  what  she's  doing  or  else  she  doesn't  care.  Per 
haps  you  know  what  Mrs.  Wray's  motive  is.  If 
you  have  an  understanding  with  her  you  haven't 
done  me  the  honor  of  telling  it." 

"No,"  he  muttered,   "I'm  not  in  the  habit  of 

talking  of   my   affairs.     You  know   we   don't   get 

l  along.     No  amount  of  talking  will  help  matters. " 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?" 

Wray's  eyes  were  sullen.  Rita  Cheyne  chose  to 
believe  that  he  was  thinking  of  his  wife.  But  as  he 
didn't  reply  at  once  she  repeated  the  question. 
It  almost  seemed  as  though  her  insistence  annoyed 
him,  but  his  tone  was  moderate. 

"What  is  it  to  you,  Rita?" 


LA  FEMME  PROPOSE 


She  took  a  quick  glance  at  him  before  she  re 
plied. 

"It  means  a  good  deal  to  me,"  she  went  on  more 
slowly.  "To  begin  with,  I  haven't  any  fancy  for 
seeing  my  best  friend  made  a  fool  of  by  the  enemies 
of  his  own  household.  It  seems  to  me  that  your 
affairs  and  hers  have  reached  a  point  where  some 
thing  must  be  done.  Perhaps  you've  already  de 
cided." 

"I've  left  her  —  she's  in  love  with  Cort  Bent. 
I  have  proof  of  it.  We  made  a  mistake,  that's  all." 

"Of  course  you  did,"  she  said.  "I'm  glad  that 
you  acknowledge  it.  Are  you  going  back  to  New 
York?" 

"I  haven't  decided.  That  depends  on  many 
things.  She  thinks  I'm  in  love  with  you." 

They  had  come  to  a  piece  of  rough  ground  sown 
with  boulders  and  fallen  trees,  through  which  their 
horses  picked  their  way  carefully.  Rita  Cheyne 
watched  the  broad  back  of  her  companion  with  a 
new  expression  in  her  eyes.  He  had  never  seemed 
so  difficult  to  read  as  at  this  moment,  but  she 
thought  that  she  understood  and  she  found  some 
thing  admirable  in  his  reticence  and  in  his  loyalty 
to  his  wife.  In  a  moment  the  trail  widened  again 
as  they  reached  the  levels,  and  her  horse  found  its 
way  alongside  his. 

"She  thinks  you're  in  love  with  me?  What  does 
she  know  about  love?  What  do  I  know  about  it?  or 
you?  Love  is  a  condition  of  mind,  contagious  in 
extreme  youth,  but  only  mildly  infectious  later 

287 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


in  life.  Why  should  any  one  risk  his  whole  future 
on  a  condition  of  mind?  You  feel  sick  but  you  don't 
marry  your  doctor  or  your  trained  nurse  because 
he  helps  to  cure  you.  Why  don't  you?  Simply 
because  you  get  well  and  then  discover  that  your 
doctor  has  a  weak  chin  or  disagreeable  finger  ends. 
When  you  get  well  of  love,  if  you  marry  to  cure 
it,  there's  nothing  left  but  Reno.  I  don't  believe 
in  love.  I  simply  deny  its  existence  —  just  as  I 
refuse  to  believe  in  ghosts  or  a  personal  Devil.  I 
resent  the  idea  that  your  wife  should  believe  you're 
in  love  with  me.  You  find  pleasure  in  my  society 
because  I  don't  rub  you  the  wrong  way,  and  I  like 
you  because  I  find  less  trouble  in  getting  on  with 
you  than  with  anybody  else." 

"You're  a  cold-blooded  proposition,  Rita,"  said 
Wray  smiling. 

"Yes  —  if  it's  cold-blooded  to  think  —  and  to 
say  what  one  thinks.  But  I'm  not  so  cold-blooded 
that  I  could  marry  one  man  when  I  liked  another 
—  a  man  with  whom  I  had  no  bond  of  sympathy. 
Cheyne  was  the  nearest  approach  I  could  find  to 
the  expression  of  a  youthful  ideal  —  people  told 
me  I  was  in  love  with  him  —  so  I  married  him. 
Of  course,  if  I  had  had  any  sense  —  but  what's  the 
use?  I've  learned  something  since  then.  To-day  I 
would  marry  —  not  for  love,  but  for  something 
finer  —  not  because  of  a  condition  of  mind  or  a 
condition  of  body,  but  because  of  a  stronger,  more 
enduring  relation,  like  that  between  the  lime  and 
sand  that  build  a  house.  I'd  marry  a  man  because 

288 


LA  FEMME  PROPOSE 


I  wanted  to  give  him  my  friendship  and  because  I 
couldn't  get  on  without  his  friendship,  and  if  the 
house  we  built  would  not  endure,  then  no  marriage 
will  endure." 

"You  mean,  Rita,"  Wray  interrupted  with  sober 
directness,  "that  you'd  marry  me  if  you  could?" 

She  flushed  mildly.  "I  didn't  say  so.  I  said  I 
would  marry  for  friendship  because  it's  the  biggest 
thing  in  the  world.  I  don't  mind  saying  I'd  marry 
you.  It's  quite  safe,  because,  obviously,  I  can't." 

Jeff  looked  at  her  uncertainly  and  then  laughed 
noisily. 

"Rita,  you're  a  queer  one!  I  never  know  when  the 
seriousness  stops  and  the  fun  begins." 

She  smiled  and  frowned  at  the  same  time. 

"The  fun  hasn't  begun.  I  mean  what  I  say. 
Why  shouldn't  a  woman  say  what  she  thinks?  A 
man  does.  I  shock  you?" 

"No  —  it's  part  of  you  somehow.  Speak  out. 
I'll  tell  you  whether  I  believe  you  or  not  when  you're 
through." 

"I  suppose  I'm  what  people  call  a  modern  woman. 
If  I  am,  I'm  glad  of  it.  Most  women  fight  hard  for 
their  independence.  I've  simply  taken  mine.  I 
say  and  do  and  shall  always  say  and  do  precisely 
what  comes  into  my  mind.  I've  no  doubt  that  I'll 
make  enemies.  I've  already  succeeded  in  doing 
that.  I'll  also  probably  shock  my  friends  —  but 
I've  thrown  away  my  fetters  and  refuse  to  put  them 
on  again  because  some  silly  prig  believes  in  living 
up  to  feminine  traditions.  I  haven't  any  sympathy 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


with  tradition.  Tradition  has  done  more  to  hinder 
the  enlightened  development  of  the  individual 
than  any  single  force  in  history.  Tradition  means 
old  fogyism,  cant  and  hypocrisy.  I  never  could 
see  why,  because  our  fathers  and  mothers  were 
stupid,  we  have  to  be  stupid,  too.  Imagine  an  age 
in  which  it  was  not  proper  to  cross  one's  legs  if  one 
wanted  to  —  an  age  of  stiff-backed  chairs,  to  sit 
in  which  was  to  be  tortured  —  when  every  silly 
person  denied  himself  a  hundred  harmless,  innocent 
amusements  simply  because  tradition  demanded 
it!  We  live  in  an  age  of  reason.  If  a  woman  loves 
a  man,  why  shouldn't  she  tell  him  so?" 


CHAPTER  XXI 

L'homme  Dispose 

JEFF  WRAY  had  listened  in  curiosity,  then 
in  amazement,  his  eyes  turned  toward  the 
Saguache  Peak,  whose  snow-cap  caught  a 
reflection  of  the  setting  sun.  He  had  accustomed 
himself  to  unusual  audacities  on  the  part  of  his 
companion,  but  the  frankness  of  her  speech  had 
outdone  anything  he  could  remember.  When  he 
turned  his  look  in  her  direction  it  was  with  a  shrewd 
glance  of  appraisement  like  the  one  she  felt  in  the 
morning  when  she  had  first  appeared  in  his  office. 
As  they  reached  an  opening  in  the  trees  Jeff  halted 
his  horse  and  dismounted. 

"It's  early  yet.  Let's  sit  for  a  while.  Throw 
your  bridle  over  his  head.  He'll  stand." 

Mrs.  Cheyne  got  down,  and  they  sat  on  a  rock 
facing  the  slope,  which  dropped  away  gently  to  the 
valley.  Jeff  took  out  his  tobacco  and  papers  and 
deftly  rolled  a  cigarette,  while  Rita  Cheyne  watched 
him.  He  offered  to  make  her  one.  but  she 
refused. 

"You've  got  me  guessing  now,  Rita,"  he  said  with 
a  laugh.  "More  than  once  in  New  York  I  won 
dered  what  sort  of  a  woman  you  really  were.  I 
thought  I'd  learned  a  thing  or  two  before  I  came 

291 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


away,  but  I'll  admit  you've  upset  all  my  calculations. 
I've  always  known  you  were  clever  when  it  came  to 
the  real  business  of  disguising  your  thoughts.  I 
know  you  never  mean  what  you  say,  but  I  can't 
understand  anybody  traveling  two  thousand 
miles  to  create  a  false  impression.  You  know  as 
well  as  I  do  that  all  this  talk  of  yours  about  friend 
ship  is  mere  clever  nonsense.  I  know  what  friend 
ship  means,  and  I  guess  I  know  what  love  means, 
too,  but  there  isn't  any  way  that  you  can  mix  them 
up  so  that  I  won't  know  one  from  the  other." 

"I'm  not  trying  to  mix  them  up." 

"You're  trying  to  mix  me  up  then."  He  took 
her  hand  in  his  and  made  her  look  at  him.  "You've 
been  playing  with  me  for  some  time.  I  was  a  dif 
ferent  kind  of  a  breed  from  anything  you'd  been 
used  to  in  New  York,  and  you  liked  to  wind  me  up 
so  that  you  could  see  the  wheels  go  'round.  You've 
had  a  lot  of  fun  out  of  me  in  one  way  or  another, 
and  you  still  find  me  amusing." 

She  stopped  indignantly. 

"Don't  you  believe  in  me?" 

"No.  The  things  you  say  are  too  clever  to  be 
genuine  for  one  thing.  You're  too  cold-blooded 
for  another." 

"One  can't  think  unless  one  is  cold-blooded." 

"When  a  woman's  in  love  she  doesn't  want  to 
think." 

"I'm  not  in  love  —  I  simply  say  I'll  marry  you, 
that's  all." 

"You're  talking  nonsense." 
292 


L'HOMME  DISPOSE 


"I  never  was  saner  in  my  life.  I  want  you  to 
believe  in  my  kind  of  friendship." 

"Eight  hundred  thousand  dollars'  worth  of  friend 
ship  is  not  to  be  sneezed  at." 

"Stop,  Jeff,  you're  brutal.     I  won't  listen." 

"You've  got  to.  I've  listened  to  you.  Now 
you  must  listen  to  me,  and  I'm  going  to  make  you 
play  the  game  with  your  cards  above  the  table. 
So  far  as  I  can  understand,  you  hold  the  New 
York  record  for  broken  hearts  to  date,  and  I  was 
warned  that  you  had  strewn  your  wrecks  along  the 
whole  front  of  Central  Park  East.  But  I  suppose 
I  was  too  much  flattered  when  you  showed  me 
attention  to  take  to  my  heels.  I  liked  you  and  I 
wanted  you  to  like  me.  Perhaps  we  both  liked 
each  other  for  the  same  reason  —  with  the  same 
motive  —  curiosity.  You  put  me  in  odd  situations 
just  to  see  what  I'd  do.  I  liked  to  be  with  you. 
You  purred  like  a  kitten  in  the  sun,  and  I  liked  to 
hear  you,  so  I  was  willing  to  perform  for  that  privi 
lege.  You  claimed  me  for  a  friend,  but  you  tried 
your  best  to  make  me  lose  my  head.  That's  true, 
you  can't  deny  it.  I  didn't  lose  it,  because  —  well, 
because  I  had  made  up  my  mind  that  I  wouldn't. 
I  don't  know  whether  you  were  disappointed  or 
not,  but  I  know  you  were  surprised,  because  you 
weren't  in  the  habit  of  missing  a  trick  when  you 
played  that  game." 

She  withdrew  her  hand  abruptly  and  turned  her 
head  away.  "That  isn't  true,"  she  murmured. 
"You  must  not  speak  to  me  so." 

293 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


"I've  got  to.  Every  word  of  what  I  say  is  true 
—  and  you  know  it." 

"It's  not  true  now." 

"Yes,  it's  true  now.  I  know  how  much  you  really 
care  about  me.  You've  got  so  much  in  life  that 
you're  never  really  interested  in  anything  except 
the  things  you  can't  get.  You  like  me  because 
you  know  I'm  out  of  your  reach  and  you  can't  have 
me  even  if  I  wanted  you  to.  You're  a  great  artist, 
but  I  don't  think  you  really  ever  fooled  me  much. 
You  like  to  run  with  a  fast  and  Frenchy  set  just 
because  it  gives  your  cleverness  a  chance  it  couldn't 
have  with  the  Dodos,  but  you  don't  mind  being 
talked  about,  because  your  conscience  is  clear; 
you  like  the  excitement  of  running  into  danger 
just  to  prove  your  cleverness  in  getting  out  of  it. 
See  here,  Rita,  this  time  you're  going  too  far. 
I  suppose  I  ought  to  feel  very  proud  of  the  faith 
you  put  in  me  and  your  willingness  to  trust  your 
self  so  completely  in  my  hands.  I  guess  I  do. 
But  things  are  different  with  me  somehow.  I 
told  you  I  was  going  to  Hell  pretty  fast,  and  I'm 
not  in  a  mood  to  be  trifled  with." 

"I'm  not  trifling."  She  had  caught  a  sinister 
note  in  his  voice  and  looked  up  at  him  in  alarm. 

"There's  a  way  to  prove  that." 

"How?" 

"This!" 

He  put  his  arms  around  her,  turned  her  face  to 
his,  and  held  it  there  while  he  looked  a  moment 
into  her  eyes.  But  she  struggled  and  held  away 

294 


L'HOMME  DISPOSE 


from  him,  suddenly  discovering  something  unfamil 
iar  in  the  roughness  of  his  touch  and  the  expression 
in  his  eyes. 

"Let  me  go!"  she  cried,  struggling  desperately 
to  be  free. 

"You'll  kiss  me." 

"No  —  never,  not  after  that." 

"After  what?" 

"The  way  you  speak  to  me.     You're  rough " 

"I'll  not  let  you  go  until  you  tell  me  why  you 
came  here.  If  you  love  me,  you'll  look  in  my  eyes 
and  tell  me  so." 

"I  don't  love  you,"  she  panted,  still  struggling. 
"I  never  shall.  Let  me  go,  I  say!" 

He  laughed  at  her.  Her  struggles  were  so  futile. 
Art  could  not  avail  her  here.  She  realized  it  at 
last  and  lay  quietly  in  his  arms,  her  eyes  closed, 
her  figure  relaxed,  while  he  kissed  her  as  he  pleased. 

"Will  you  tell  me  you  love  me?" 

"No.     I  loathe  you." 

Then  she  began  struggling  again;  he  released  her, 
and  she  flung  away  and  stood  facing  him,  her  hat 
off,  hair  in  disorder,  cheeks  flaming,  her  body 
trembling  with  rage  and  dismay. 

"Oh,  that  you  could  have  touched  me  so!" 

"Why,  Rita "  he  began. 

"Don't  speak  to  me "     She  moved  toward 

the  horses.     "I'm  going,"  she  asserted. 

"Where?" 

"To  Mesa  City." 

"How  can  you?    You  don't  know  the  way." 
295 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


"I'll  find  the  way.     Oh "     She  stamped  her 

foot  in  rage  and  then,  without  other  warning,  sank 
on  a  rock  near  by  and  burst  into  tears. 

Jeff  Wray  rose  uncertainly  and  stared  at  her, 
wide-eyed,  like  other  more  practiced  men  in  similar 
situations,  unaccountably  at  a  loss.  He  had 
acted  on  impulse  with  a  sense  of  fitting  capably 
into  a  situation.  He  watched  her  in  amazement, 
for  her  tears  were  genuine.  No  woman  was  clever 
enough  to  be  able  to  cry  like  that.  There  was  no 
feminine  artistry  here.  She  was  only  a  child  who 
had  made  the  discovery  that  her  doll  is  stuffed  with 
sawdust.  He  realized  that  perhaps  for  the  first 
time  he  saw  her  divested  of  her  artifice,  the  polite 
mummery  of  the  world,  the  real  Rita  Cheyne, 
who  all  her  life  had  wanted  to  want  something  and, 
now  that  she  had  found  what  it  was,  could  not  have 
it  just  as  she  wanted  it.  It  was  real  woe,  there  was 
no  doubt  of  that,  the  pathetic  woe  of  childhood. 
He  went  over  to  her  and  laid  his  hand  gently  on  her 
shoulder.  But  she  would  not  raise  her  head,  and 
it  almost  seemed  as  though  she  had  forgotten  him. 
He  stood  beside  her  for  some  moments,  looking  down 
at  her  with  a  changing  expression.  The  hard  lines 
she  had  discovered  in  his  face  were  softened,  the 
frown  relaxed,  and  at  his  lips  there  came  the  flicker 
of  a  smile. 

"I  — I'm  sorry,"  he  said  at  last.  "I  — I  made 
a  mistake,  Rita.  I  made  a  mistake." 

The  sobs  began  anew. 

"How  —  how  could  you  —  treat  me  so?" 
296 


L'HOMME  DISPOSE 


There  was  no  reply  to  that,  so  he  stood  silently 
and  waited  for  the  storm  to  pass.  Meanwhile  he 
had  the  good  taste  not  to  touch  her  again.  But  as 
the  sobs  diminished  he  repeated: 

"I  made  a  mistake,  Rita.  You  made  me  think 

"Oh!"  only.  Her  face  appeared  for  a  moment 
above  her  arms  and  then  instantly  disappeared. 
"You're  odious!" 

"Why,  Rita,"  he  said  with  warm  frankness, 
"how  could  I  believe  anything  else?  All  your  talk 
of  friendship;  why,  you  asked  me  to  marry  you. 
What  did  you  expect  of  me?" 

"Not  that  —  not  what  you  did  —  the  way  you 
did  it." 

"You  forgave  me  once." 

She  raised  her  head,  careless  of  the  tears  which 
still  coursed. 

"Yes,  I  forgave  you  then.  But  not  now.  I 
can't  forgive  you  now.  No  man  ever  kissed  a 
woman  the  way  you  kissed  me  unless  he  is  mad  about 
her  —  or  despises  her  " 

"Despises " 

'Yes.  You  might  as  well  ask  me  to  forgive  you 
for  murdering  my  brother.  You've  killed  some 
thing  inside  me  —  my  pride,  I  think.  I  can  never 
—  never  forget  that." 

She  got  up  and  turned  her  back  to  him,  fingering 
for  her  handkerchief.  She  had  none.  He  slowly 
undid  the  kerchief  from  around  his  own  neck  and 
put  it  in  her  hand. 

"Don't  cry,  Rita." 

20  297 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


"Cry?"  She  wheeled  around,  still  staunching 
her  tears.  "No,  I'll  not  cry.  I  was  a  fool  to  cry. 
I'll  not  cry  any  more.  I  cried  because  —  because 
I  was  disappointed  —  that  any  one  I  trusted  could 
be  so  base." 

"I'm  not  so  dreadful  as  all  that.  You  must 
admit " 

"I'll  admit  nothing  —  except  that  I  made  a  mis 
take,  too.  It  hasn't  been  a  pleasant  awakening. 
I  know  now  what  those  kisses  meant." 

Wray's  incomprehension  was  deeper. 

"I  wish  I  did,"  he  said.  "I  was  sure  they 
wouldn't  do  you  any  harm.  You  wouldn't  have 
been  so  frank  with  me  if  you  hadn't  been  pretty 
sure  of  yourself." 

"That  was  my  mistake.  I  was  so  sure  of  myself 
that  I  didn't  think  it  necessary  to  be  sure  of  you." 
And  while  Jeff  was  trying  to  understand  what  she 
meant,  she  went  on: 

"Those  were  not  my  kisses.  They  were  imper 
sonal  —  and  might  have  been  given  to  any  woman 
—  that  is,  any  woman  who  would  allow  them. 
Each  of  them  a  separate  insult  —  Judas  kisses  — 
treacherous  kisses  —  kisses  of  retaliation  —  of  re 
venge " 

"What  on  earth  are  you  talking  about?" 

"You've  been  using  me  to  square  your  accounts 
with  your  wife  —  that's  all,"  scornfully.  "As  if 
you  didn't  know." 

He  flushed  crimson  and  bit  his  lips.  "That's 
not  true,"  he  muttered.  "  What  does  it  matter  to  my 


L'HOMME  DISPOSE 


wife?  Why  should  she  care  who  I  kiss  —  or 
why?" 

"It  doesn't  matter  to  her,  I  suppose,"  she  said, 
slightly  ironical;  "she  is  her  own  mistress  again, 
but  it  does  to  you.  Curiously  enough  you're  still 
in  love  with  your  wife.  She's  in  love  with  somebody 
else.  Naturally  it  wounds  your  self-esteem  — 
that  precious  self-esteem  of  yours  that's  more 
stupendous  than  the  mountain  above  you.  She 
hurts  you,  and  you  come  running  to  me  for  the  lini 
ment.  Thanks!  You've  come  to  the  wrong  shop, 
Mr.  Wray." 

Jeff's  brows  darkened.  He  opened  his  mouth 
as  though  to  speak,  but  thought  better  of  it. 
As  Rita  Cheyne  took  up  the  bridle  of  her  horse  and 
led  him  to  a  rock  that  she  might  mount,  Jeff  inter 
fered. 

"One  moment,  Rita.  I  think  we'd  better  have 
this  thing  out.  I'm  beginning  to  understand  better 
the  width  of  the  breach  between  us  —  it's  widened 
some  to-day  —  and  I  don't  believe  you're  going  to 
try  to  make  it  up  to-morrow.  I'm  sorry,  but  I'm 
not  going  to  have  any  more  misunderstandings, 
either.  I  want  you  to  forgive  me  if  you  can.  I've 
cared  for  you  a  good  deal  —  enough  to  make  me 
sorry  you  were  only  fooling.  Things  don't  seem  to 
be  going  my  way,  and  I've  had  lot  of  thinking  to 
do  that  hasn't  made  me  any  too  cheerful.  I  don't 
seem  to  see  things  just  the  way  I  did.  This  fight 
has  made  me  bitter.  I've  got  everything  against 
me  —  your  world,  the  organized  forces  of  your  world 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


against  a  rank  outsider.  I  belong  to  the  people 
who  work  with  their  hands.  I've  always  been  pretty 
proud  of  that.  I  went  East  and  mixed  up  with  a 
lot  of  your  kind  of  people.  I  had  a  good  time. 
They  asked  me  to  their  houses,  gave  me  their  wine 
and  food.  They  knew  what  they  were  about. 
They  had  need  of  me,  but  no  matter  what  they 
said  or  did  they  never  for  a  moment  let  me  forget 
what  I'd  come  from.  You  were  the  only  one  of 
all  that  crowd  who  tried  to  make  me  feel  differently. 
Was  it  any  wonder  that  I  was  grateful  for  it?" 

"Your  gratitude  takes  a  curious  form." 

He  held  up  a  hand  in  protest. 

"Then  you  —  you  liked  me  because  I  said  just 
what  I  thought  whenever  I  thought  it,  but  even 
with  you  I  never  forgot  it  wasn't  possible  for  us 
ever  to  reach  an  understanding  of  perfect  equality. 
You  played  with  life  —  you  had  been  taught  to. 
Life  is  a  kind  of  joke  to  you.  People  are  incidents, 
only  important  when  they  give  you  amusement. 
I've  been  more  important  than  others  for  that 
reason  —  because  I  gave  you  more  amusement 
than  others,  but  there's  never  been  any  doubt 
that  I  was  only  an  incident.  To  me  life  is  a  grim 
problem  —  I've  felt  its  weight,  and  I  know.  To-day 
you  talked  of  making  a  marriage  as  I  would  speak 
of  making  a  cigarette.  It  was  too  cold-blooded 
even  for  humour " 

"You  refuse  me  then,  do  you,  Jeff?"  she  laughed. 
But  he  made  no  reply  to  her  banter. 

"I've   done   with   marriage,"   he   went   on.     "I 
300 


L'HOMME  DISPOSE 


tried  it  and  I  failed,  just  as  you  tried  it  and  failed, 
but  I'm  not  ready,  as  you  are,  to  make  a  joke  of  it. 
Failures  are  not  the  kind  of  things  I  like  to  joke  about. 
You  joke  because  joking  makes  you  forget.  I'm 
not  trying  to  forget.  I  couldn't  if  I  wanted  to. 
I've  learned  that  out  here.  My  wife  can  do  as  she 
likes.  If  she  wants  to  marry  Cort  Bent  I'll  give 
her  a  divorce,  but  as  for  me,  I've  done  with  it 
—  for  good." 

Jeff  had  sunk  to  the  rock  beside  her,  his  head  in 
his  hands,  while  she  stood  a  little  way  off  looking 
down  at  him.  Their  relative  attitudes  seemed  some 
how  to  make  a  difference  in  her  way  of  thinking  of 
him.  In  spite  of  the  light  bitterness  of  her  mood, 
she,  too,  felt  the  weight  of  his  thoughts. 

"Do  you  mean  to  say,"  she  murmured,  half  in 
pity,  half  in  contempt,  "that  you  still  love  your  wife 
as  much  as  this?" 

But  he  made  no  reply. 

"It's  really  quite  extraordinary,"  she  went  on 
with  a  manner  which  seemed  to  go  with  upraised 
brows  and  a  lorgnon.  "You're  really  the  most 
wonderful  person  I've  ever  known.  This  is  the 
kind  of  fidelity  one  usually  associates  with  the 
noble  house-dog.  I'm  sure  she'd  be  flattered.  But 
why  will  you  give  her  a  divorce?  Since  you're  not 
going  to  marry  —  what's  the  use?" 

He  rose  and  went  to  the  horses.  "Come,"  he 
said,  "it's  getting  late.  Let's  get  back." 

She  refused  his  help,  mounted  alone,  and  silently 
they  rode  down  the  slope  through  the  underbrush, 

301 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


where  after  a  while  Jeff  found  a  trail  in  the 
open. 

"Does  this  lead  to  Mesa  City?"  she  asked. 

He  nodded. 

"Good-by,  then."  She  flourished  her  hand  and, 
before  he  realized  it,  was  off  and  had  soon  dis 
appeared  from  sight.  He  urged  his  horse  forward 
into  a  full  gallop,  but  saw  that  he  could  not  catch 
her.  Apache  was  the  faster  horse,  and  his  own 
animal  carried  too  much  weight.  So  after  a  few 
miles  he  gave  up  the  race,  walked  his  winded  horse, 
and  gave  himself  up  to  his  thoughts. 

The  exercise  had  refreshed  his  mind,  and  he  was 
able  to  think  with  calm  amusement  of  the  little 
comedy  in  which  he  had  just  been  an  actor.  What 
a  spoiled  child  she  was!  He  couldn't  understand 
why  he  had  ever  been  afraid  of  her.  It  was  only 
pity  he  felt  now,  the  pity  of  those  tears,  the  only 
really  inartistic  thing  Rita  had  ever  been  guilty 
of,  for  her  face  had  not  been  so  pretty  when  she  cried. 
And  yet  they  appealed  to  him  more  strongly  than 
any  token  she  had  ever  given  him.  What  did  they 
mean?  He  had  hurt  her  pride,  of  course  —  he  had 
had  to  do  that,  but  somehow  his  conscience  didn't 
seem  to  trouble  him  much  about  the  state  of  Rita's 
heart.  Love  meant  something  different  to  him 
from  the  kind  of  cold,  analytical  thing  Rita  Cheyne 
was  capable  of.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  those  tears! 
They  worried  him. 

As  he  reached  the  edge  of  a  wood  he  caught  a 
glimpse  of  her  just  disappearing  over  the  brow  of 

302 


L'HOMME  DISPOSE 


a  hill,  half  a  mile  away.  So  he  urged  his  horse  for 
ward.  It  wouldn't  do  to  have  her  ride  into  Mesa 
without  him.  He  rode  hard  and  suddenly  came 
upon  her  kneeling  at  the  border  of  a  stream,  dipping 
his  bandana  into  the  water  and  touching  her  eyes. 
When  she  saw  him  she  looked  up  pertly,  and  he  saw 
that  she  was  only  a  child  washing  its  face. 

"Hello!"  she  said.  "I  was  waiting  for  you.  Do 
you  see  what  I'm  doing?  It's  a  rite.  Do  I  look 
like  Niobe?  I'm  washing  my  hands  —  of  you." 

Jeff  got  down  and  stood  beside  her. 

"Do  be  sensible,  Rita." 

"I  am  —  am  I  clean?  You  haven't  a  powder 
puff  about  you  —  have  you?" 

"You're  going  to  tell  me  you  forgive  me?" 

"There's  nothing  to  forgive.  If  you  think  there's 
anything  to  forgive,  I'll  forgive  —  of  course." 
She  got  up  from  her  knees,  wiping  her  face,  sat  down 
on  a  tree  trunk,  and  motioned  him  to  sit  beside  her. 

"Jeff,"  she  said,  "I've  a  confession  to  make. 
You  know  what  it  is,  because  you're  cleverer  than 
you  have  any  right  to  be.  I  don't  love  you  really, 
you  know,  and  I'm  pretty  sure  it  isn't  in  me  to 
love  any  one  —  except  myself.  It  has  always  made 
me  furious  to  think  that  I  couldn't  do  anything 
with  you.  From  the  first  I  set  my  heart  on  having 
you  for  myself,  not  because  I  wanted  to  laugh  at 
you  —  I  couldn't  have  done  that  —  but  because 
you  were  in  love  with  your  wife." 

"Why  —  do  you  hate  her  so?" 

"I  don't.  I  don't  hate  any  one.  But  she  irri- 
303 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


tated  me.  She  was  so  self-satisfied,  so  genuine,  so 
handsome  —  three  things  which  I  am  not."  She 
waited  for  him  to  contradict  her,  but  Jeff  was 
frowning  at  vacancy. 

^Just  to  satisfy  my  self-esteem  —  which  is  almost 
as  great  as  yours,  Jeff  Wray —  I  would  have  moved 
mountains  to  win,  and  I  even  let  you  drag  my  pride 
in  the  dust  before  I  discovered  that  I  couldn't. 
I  die  pretty  hard,  but  I  know  when  I'm 
dead." 

"Don't,  Rita;  you  and  I  are  going  to  be  better 
friends  than  ever." 

"No,  Jeff,  I'm  going  East  to-morrow.  I  don't 
want  to  see  you.  To  see  you  would  be  to  remind  me 
of  my  insufficiencies." 

"You've  made  a  friend." 

"No,"  shaking  her  head,  "that  won't  do.  It 
never  does.  I  may  have  tried  to  deceive  you,  but 
I  know  better.  Friendship  is  masculine  —  or  it's 
feminine.  It  can't  be  both.  I'm  going  away  at 
once.  I'm  not  going  to  see  you  again." 

"Oh,  yes,  you  are.     To-morrow  we'll " 

"No.  I'd  go  to-night  if  there  was  a  train.  I 
want  you  to  do  one  thing  for  me,  though.  Will 
you?" 

"If  I  can." 

"That  money  —  the  money  for  that  stock.  I 
want  to  leave  it  with  you  —  to  use  or  not  to  use  as 
you  think  best.  I've  got  a  great  deal  of  money  — 
much  more  than  is  good  for  me." 

Jeff  shook  his  head. 

304 


L'HOMME  DISPOSE 


"No,  Rita,  no.  I  can't  do  that.  If  I'm  going 
to  lose,  I'll  lose  alone." 

"But  if  you  win?"  she  turned  and  gave  him  her 
hand.  "You  will.  I've  sworn  you  will.  And 
here's  luck  on  it."  Instead  of  clasping  her  hand, 
as  she  intended  he  should,  he  raised  it  to  his  lips 
and  kissed  it  gently  —  as  under  different  conditions 
he  might  have  kissed  her  lips.  She  looked  down  at 
the  top  of  his  head  and  closed  her  eyes  a  moment, 
but  when  he  looked  up  she  was  smiling  gaily. 

"You're  a  good  sport,  Rita,"  he  said. 

"Yes,"  she  said  coolly,  "I  believe  I  am." 

They  rode  into  Mesa  City  slowly.  The  valley 
was  already  wrapped  in  shadow,  but  above  them  the 
upper  half  of  Saguache  Peak  was  afire  with  the 
sunset.  The  evening  train  was  in  and  had  puffed 
its  way  up  to  the  yard.  There  was  a  crowd  at  the 
post-office  waiting  for  mail,  and  scattered  groups 
here  and  there  were  chatting  with  the  arrivals. 
Wray  and  Mrs.  Cheyne  climbed  the  slope  to  the 
Eanney  House,  where  a  cowboy  from  the  Home 
Ranch  was  waiting  for  their  horses.  They  dis 
mounted  and  went  indoors  to  the  office,  where  a 
solitary  lady  in  a  dark  dress  was  signing  her  name 
to  the  hotel  register.  At  the  sound  of  their  voices 
she  turned  and  straightened,  suddenly  very  pale 
and  tense.  And  then,  before  Jeff  could  speak,  turned 
again  quickly  to  the  clerk  and  said  quietly: 

"If  you'll  show  me  the  way  up  at  once,  please, 
I'd  like  to  go  to  my  room." 


305 


CHAPTER  XXII 

PRIVATE   MATTERS 

JEFF  followed  Camilla's  departing  back  with 
blank  bewilderment,  too  amazed  to  utter  a 
word.  Rita  Cheyne  looked  at  Jeff's  face  and 
then  laughed. 

"Act  Three  will  now  begin,"  she  said  gaily. 
"It's  really  too  good,  Jeff.  But  it's  time  for  the 
lady-villain  to  die.  I'm  off  stage  now,  so 
good-by." 

She  gave  him  her  hand,  and  he  took  it  me 
chanically. 

"I'll  see  you  to-morrow,"  he  said  gravely. 

"No,  this  is  good-by.  There  isn't  any  to-morrow 
for  us.  I  won't  see  you,  Jeff.  I  think  perhaps  you 
won't  want  to  see  me  now." 

"This  will  make  no  difference,"  he  stammered. 
"Don't  you  see  —  I've  got  to  make  her  understand." 

"You  mean  —  my  reputation.  She'd  never 
understand  that.  You'll  be  wasting  time.  Don't 
bother.  I'm  going  to  Denver  in  the  morning. 
No,  not  a  word " 

He  tried  to  hold  her,  but  the  clerk  came  down  at 
this  moment,  so,  with  a  last  flourish  of  the  hand,  she 
sped  past  him  and  up  the  stairs. 

Jeff  stood  for  a  moment  in  the  middle  of  the  floor, 
306 


PRIVATE  MATTERS 


irresolute.  Then  he  turned  to  the  desk  and  asked 
the  number  of  Mrs.  Wray's  room. 

"Parlor  B,  Mr.  Wray,  but  she  told  me  to  say 
that  she  did  not  want  to  be  disturbed." 

Jeff  hesitated,  and  then,  with  a  frown:  "That 
doesn't  matter,"  he  growled.  "I'll  explain.  I'm 
going  up,"  and  he  made  his  way  to  the  stairs. 

The  room,  he  remembered,  was  at  the  front  of 
the  house.  He  had  occupied  it  before  they  built 
his  sleeping  quarters  in  the  office  building.  He 
found  the  door  readily  and  knocked,  but  there  was 
no  response.  He  knocked  again.  This  time  her 
voice  inquired. 

"It's  Jeff,  Camilla,"  he  said.  "I  must  see  you 
at  once.  Let  me  in,  please." 

Another  long  pause  of  indecision.  He  might 
have  been  mistaken,  but  he  fancied  he  could  hear 
Rita  Cheyne's  light  laugh  somewhere  down  the 
corridor.  He  did  not  want  a  scene  —  as  yet  his 
and  Camilla's  misfortunes  had  not  reached  the  ears 
of  Mesa  City.  He  was  still  debating  whether  he 
would  knock  again  or  go  away  when  the  key  turned 
in  the  lock  and  the  door  was  opened. 

"Come  in,"  said  Camilla,  and  he  entered.  She 
had  removed  her  hat,  and  the  bed  and  pillow  already 
bore  traces  of  her  weight. 

"I'm  sorry  to  intrude,"  he  began  awkwardly. 

"Shut  the  door,"  she  suggested.  "Perhaps  it's 
just  as  well  that  people  here  shouldn't  know  any 
more  of  our  private  affairs  than  is  necessary." 

He  obeyed  and  turned  the  key  in  the  lock.  His 
307 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


wife  had  moved  to  the  window  and  stood,  very 
straight  and  pale,  waiting  for  him  to  speak.  She 
seemed,  if  anything,  slimmer  than  when  he  had  seen 
her  last,  and  her  hair,  which  had  fallen  loosely  about 
her  shoulders,  was  burnished  with  the  last  warm 
glow  from  Saguache  Peak.  He  had  never  thought 
her  more  beautiful,  but  there  were  lines  at  her  eyes 
and  mouth  which  the  growing  shadows  of  the 
room  made  deeper. 

"I  suppose  you're  willing  to  believe  the  worst 
of  me,"  he  began,  "and  of  her.  Perhaps  I  ought  to 
tell  you  first  that  she  only  came  here  this  morning 
—  that  she's  going  away  to-morrow " 

"It  isn't  necessary  to  explain,"  she  interrupted. 
"I  hope  Mrs.  Cheyne  won't  go  on  my  account.  I'm 
going,  too,  in  the  morning.  Under  the  circum 
stances,  I'm  sorry  I  couldn't  have  waited  a  day  or 
two,  but  I  had  to  see  you  at  once." 

"You  had  to  see  me?  Has  something  gone 
wrong  in  New  York?  What  is ?" 

"Oh,  no,"  wearily.  "Everything  in  New  York 
is  all  right.  I've  had  everything  packed  in  boxes 
and  have  given  up  the  apartment  at  the  hotel." 

Jeff's  brows  tangled  in  mystification. 

"You've    given    up    the    apartment?     Why?" 

"I'm  not  going  to  live  there  any  more.  I'm 
going  to  Kansas  —  to  Abilene.  I'm  very  tired, 
Jeff,  and  I  need  a  rest." 

"Camilla!"  He  pushed  an  armchair  toward  her 
and  made  her  sit.  "You  do  look  as  if  you  —  you're 
not  sick,  are  you?" 

308 


PRIVATE  MATTERS 


"Oh,  no  —  just  tired  of  everything."  Her  voice 
was  low,  as  it  always  had  been,  but  it  had  no  life 
in  it.  "Just  tired  of  being  misunderstood.  I 
won't  explain,  and  I  don't  expect  you  to.  I  couldn't 
listen  if  you  did.  I  came  here  because  I  had  to 
come,  because  no  matter  what  our  relations  are  it 
was  my  duty  to  see  you  at  once  and  tell  you  some 
thing  of  the  greatest  importance." 

He  stood  behind  her  chair,  his  fingers  close  to  her 
pallid  cheeks,  gently  brushed  by  the  filaments  of  her 
hair,  the  perfume  of  which  reached  him  like  some 
sweet  memory.  He  leaned  over  her,  aching  for 
some  token  that  would  let  him  take  her  in  his  arms 
and  forget  all  the  shadows  that  had  for  so  long 
hung  about  them.  But  as  she  spoke,  he  straight 
ened,  glowering  at  the  wall  beyond  her. 

"It  isn't  —  it's  nothing  —  to  do  with  you  —  and 
Cort  Bent ?" 

"Oh,  no,  not  at  all.  I  haven't  seen  Cort  for 
some  time.  It's  about  —  about  the  General." 

"General  Bent?"  Jeff  gave  a  quick  sigh,  paced 
across  the  room,  and  then  turned  with  a  frown. 
"I'm  not  interested  in  General  Bent,"  he  muttered. 
"For  me  he  has  stopped  being  a  person.  He's 
only  a  piece  of  machinery  —  a  steel  octopus  that's 
slowly  crushing  me  to  bits.  I'd  rather  not  talk  of 
General  Bent." 

"Is  it  as  bad  as  that?"  she  murmured,  awe- 
stricken. 

"Yes  —  they've  pushed  me  to  the  wall.  I'm 
still  fighting,  but  unless  I  compromise  or  sell  the 

309 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


mine "  he  stopped  and  straightened  his  great 

frame.  "Camilla,  don't  let's  talk  of  this.  I  know 
you're  tired.  I  won't  stay  long.  Just  tell  me  what 
you  mean  about  going  back  to  Abilene." 

She  clasped  her  hands  nervously,  glad  of  the  chance 
to  postpone  her  revelation,  which  seemed  to  grow 
more  difficult  with  each  moment. 

"I  can't  stand  the  life  I'm  living,  Jeff.  I  can't 
take  any  more  from  you.  I've  done  it  all  spring 
because  you  wanted  me  to,  but  I  can't  live  a  lie 
any  longer.  Those  rooms,  that  luxury,  the  servants, 
the  people  about  me,  they  oppressed  me  and  bore 
me  to  the  earth.  I  have  no  right  to  them  —  still 
less  now  that  things  are  going  badly  with  you. 
You  wanted  me  to  keep  the  place  we'd  made  —  , 
to  make  a  larger  place  for  your  name  in  New  York. 
I  hope  I've  made  it,  but  it  has  cost  me  something. 
I'm  sick  of  ambition,  of  the  soulless  striving,  the 
emptiness  of  it  all.  I  can't  do  it  any  longer.  I 
must  go  somewhere  where  I  can  be  myself,  where 
I  don't  have  to  knuckle  to  people  I  despise,  where 
I  don't  have  to  climb,  climb,  climb  —  my  ears  deaf 
to  the  sneers  and  the  envy  of  the  scandal-mongers, 
and  open  only  for  the  flattery  which  soothes  my  self- 
esteem  but  not  —  no,  nothing  can  soothe  the  ache 
at  the  heart." 

"What  has  happened,  Camilla?  I  understood 
you  had  made  many  new  friends." 

"Yes,  some  new  friends  —  also,  some  new  enemies. 
But  that  hasn't  bothered  me.  It's  the  lying  I 
had  to  do  —  about  you  —  the  excuses  I  have  had 

310 


PRIVATE  MATTERS 


to  make  for  being  alone,  the  dates  I  have  set  for 
your  return,  lies  —  all  lies  —  when  I  knew  you  were 
not  going  to  return,  that  you  had  deserted  me  and 
left  me  only  your  money  as  a  bribe.  I  couldn't 
do  it  any  longer.  I  wrote  you  all  this.  You 
thought  I  didn't  mean  what  I  said  —  because  I 
had  your  money  —  your  merciless  money,  to  gratify 
my  pride  in  my  pretty  body.  It  has  come  to  the 
point  where  your  money  is  an  insult  —  as  much  of 
an  insult  as  the  dishonor  you  put  on  me." 

"Dishonor?  I  can't  have  you  associate  that  name 
with  Mrs.  Cheyne,"  he  blurted  forth. 

She  smiled  and  then  gave  a  hard,  dry,  little  un- 
mirthful  laugh. 

"Oh,  you  mistake  my  meaning.  I  wasn't  think 
ing  of  Mrs.  Cheyne.  I  was  selfish  enough  to  be 
still  thinking  of  myself." 

"I  don't  understand." 

She  got  up  and  walked  to  the  window,  leaning 
her  face  against  the  pane  to  soothe  with  its  coolness 
the  heat  of  her  brow.  "I  was  thinking  of  my  own 
dishonor  —  not  yours  —  I  have  nothing  to  do  with 
yours.  To  be  doubted  as  you  have  doubted 
me  —  to  know  that  you  could  believe  me 
capable  of  dishonoring  you  —  that  is  dishonor 
enough." 

"You  mustn't  forget  that  you  gave  me  cause," 
he  said  hoarsely.  "What  kind  of  a  man  do  you 
think  I  am?  You  married  me  for  a  whim  —  because 
another  man  wouldn't  have  you.  I  forgave  you 
that  because  I  was  willing  to  take  you  at  any  price. 

311 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


That  was  my  fault  as  much  as  yours.  It  was  what 
came  after " 

He  came  up  behind  her,  his  voice  trembling  but 
suppressed. 

"Do  you  think  I'm  the  kind  of  man  to  tolerate 
the  things  between  you  and  Cort  Bent?  I  was  a 
fool  once.  I  believed  in  you  —  I  thought  no  mat 
ter  how  little  love  you  had  in  your  heart  for  me  that 
you'd  have  enough  respect  for  yourself.  Do  you 
think  I  could  stand  knowing  that  my  servants 
had  seen  you  in  his  arms?" 

She  flashed  around  at  him,  breathless,  paler  than 
ever,  clutching  at  the  window-sill  behind  her  for 
support.  "Who  —  who  told  you  this?" 

"  Greer  —  my  valet  at  the  hotel,"  he  snarled , 
"when  I  discharged  him  and  came  here." 

"He  said ?" 

Jeff  caught  her  by  the  elbows  —  brutally  —  and 
held  her  so  that  he  could  look  into  her  eyes. 

"It's  true  —  isn't  it?     Answer  me!" 

She  gazed  at  him  wide-eyed,  and  now  for  the 
first  time  he  saw  how  ill  she  looked.  Even  at  that 
moment  he  was  sure  that  pity  and  love  and  a 
desire  for  possession  were  still  the  feelings  that 
dominated  him.  She  could  not  stand  the  gaze 
of  his  eyes.  They  seemed  to  burn  through  her, 
so  she  lowered  her  head. 

"Yes,"  she  admitted  brokenly,  "it's  true  —  I 
was  in  his  arms." 

A  sound  came  from  his  throat  —  a  guttural  sound 
half-choked  in  the  utterance,  as  he  dropped  her, 

312 


PRIVATE  MATTERS 


turned  violently  and  in  a  stride  was  at  the  door. 
But  as  the  key  turned  in  the  lock,  she  started  for 
ward  and  clutched  him  by  the  sleeve. 

"Wait,"  she  whispered  piteously.  "You  must. 
You  can't  go  now.  You've  got  to  know  every 
thing." 

"I  think  I've  had  enough.  I'm  going."  He 
turned  the  knob  and  opened  the  door,  but  she 
leaned  against  it  and  pushed  it  shut. 

"You've  got  to  listen.  I  have  some  rights  still 
—  the  right  every  woman  has  to  defend  her  name." 

"If  she  can,"  he  sneered. 

"I  can  —  I  will.  Will  you  listen? "  He  shrugged 
his  shoulders  and  walked  past  her  to  the  window. 
Camilla  faced  him,  beginning  slowly,  breathlessly. 
"It  was  when  we  first  came  to  New  York  that  it 
began  —  that  day  when  you  and  your  —  you 
and  General  Bent  came  in  from  downtown.  Cort- 
land  was  there  —  I  —  I  thought  I  had  forgotten 
him.  I  was  happy  with  you.  I  was  beginning 
to  believe  that,  after  all,  we  hadn't  made  a  mistake. 
But  you  were  away  all  day  and  I  was  lonely.  The 
city  was  so  vast,  so  unfriendly.  I  had  no  right 
to  be  lonely  but  I  was.  I  was  bewildered  by  all 
the  magnificence  and  homesick  for  Mesa  City. 
That  day  Cort  Bent  came  in  I  had  a  fit  of  the  blues. 
He  brought  back  all  the  old  story  —  and  told  me 
how  you  stole  the  mine." 

Jeff  laughed  aloud.  "So  he  told  you  that  —  did 
he?  For  sympathy?"  he  sneered. 

"It  revolted  me,"  she  persisted.  "It  revolts 
21  313 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


me  still.  I  was  new  to  modern  business  methods 
then.  I  can't  like  them  now,  but  I've  learned  to 
keep  silent.  He  asked  me  to  forgive  him  the  past, 
and  I  did.  The  spell  of  romance  was  over  me  still. 
He  told  me  that  he  loved  me  more  than  ever  and 
that  he  would  not  give  me  up.  I  thought  —  I 
thought  I  loved  him,  too " 

"You  thought!  You  knew! "  he  said  immoderately. 
"You've  always  loved  him." 

"No,  no.  It  wasn't  that,"  she  pleaded.  "It 
wasn't  love,  Jeff.  I  learned  that  soon  enough. 
It  was  only  pity " 

"And  where  was  your  pity  for  me?" 

"Don't,  Jeff  —  let  me  finish.  Whatever  my 
feelings  for  you  then,  whatever  they  are  now,  I 
was  true  to  you  in  word  and  deed." 

"When  you  were  in  his  arms?"  He  laughed 
harshly. 

"He  took  me  in  his  arms.  He  tried  to  kiss  me 
on  the  lips,  but  I  would  not  let  him.  I've  never  let 
him.  I  broke  away  and  threatened  to  ring  if  he 
followed  me  —  and  then  —  and  then  you  came  in. 
That's  all,  Jeff  —  all  —  and  it's  the  truth."  She 
faced  him  bravely,  her  eyes  seeking  his.  He  glared 
at  her  madly,  but  could  not  stare  her  down.  It 
was  one  of  those  tragic  moments  when  all  the  future 
hangs  on  the  flicker  of  an  eyelash.  Jeff's  gaze  fell 
first. 

"I  would  have  come  back  here,"  she  went  on. 
"I  asked  you  to  leave  New  York  with  me.  You 
wouldn't  go.  Instead  of  that  you  threw  us  together 

314 


PRIVATE  MATTERS 


more  and  more.  Why,  I  don't  know,  unless  it 
was  because  you  did  not  care." 

"I  did  care,"  he  muttered. 

"You  did  not  care,"  she  insisted.  "You  had 
met  Rita  Cheyne  then " 

"It  was  because  she  saw  what  I  did,"  he  asserted. 
"It  was  because  — 

"Don't  explain,"  she  said.  "I'm  not  asking  you 
to  explain  or  to  exonerate  her.  It's  too  late  for  that. 
But  I  cannot  bear  to  have  you  think  such  dreadful 
things  about  me,  cruel  things,  things  that  hurt 
—  hurt  me  here  - 

She  put  her  hand  to  her  breast  and  swayed. 
He  sprang  to  her  side  and  caught  her  in  his  arms 
as  she  fell,  lifting  her  like  a  child  and  carrying  her 
to  the  bed,  terror-stricken  at  the  coldness  of  her 
hands  and  face.  He  rang  the  bell,  and  then  with 
bungling  fingers  loosened  her  collar  and  dress, 
whimpering  the  while  like  a  child.  "Camilla,  my 
girl,  don't  look  so  white.  Open  your  eyes.  I 
believe  you,  dearie;  I've  always  believed  you.  Look 
at  me,  Camilla.  I  know  you're  straight.  I  didn't 
mean  it.  I  was  cruel  to  you.  I  wouldn't  hurt  you 
for  the  world.  I  love  you.  You're  my  girl  —  my 
girl." 

There  was  a  commotion  at  the  door  of  the  ad 
joining  room,  which  suddenly  flew  open,  and  a 
figure  in  a  trailing  silk  kimono  glided  in,  pushed 
him  aside  abruptly,  and  put  a  silver  brandy  flask 
to  Camilla's  lips.  It  was  Mrs.  Cheyne. 

"I  was  next  door,"  she  explained  jerkily.  "I 
315 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


heard.  I  couldn't  help  it.  The  partitions  are  so 
thin."  And  then,  with  sudden  authority:  "Don't 
stand  there  like  a  fool.  Bring  some  water  — 
quickly,"  and  when  he  had  obeyed:  "Now  bathe 
her  temples  and  give  her  brandy.  She'll  be  all 
right  in  a  minute.  When  I  go,  get  a  light.  But 
she  mustn't  see  me  here."  And,  before  he  was 
even  aware  of  it,  she  had  vanished  like  a  wraith. 

The  housemaid  brought  a  lamp,  put  it  on  the 
table,  and  hovered  anxiously  in  the  background, 
but  Camilla's  eyes  had  opened. 

"Mrs.  Wray  is  sick,"  Jeff  began. 

But  Camilla  had  already  drawn  herself  up  on 
one  elbow  and  gently  pushed  him  away. 

"I  —  I'm  all  right  now.  I  can't  imagine  what 
made  me  feel  so  queerly.  I've  never  been  —  I've 
never  fainted  before." 

"A  little  more  brandy?" 

"No,  not  now.  Who — ?  Wasn't  there  some 
one  else  in  here?  I  thought  —  I  saw  some  one  in 
pink  —  and  smelled  a  perfume.  I  must  have  been 
dreaming." 

"Lie  back  on  the  pillow  and  rest,  Camilla,  dear. 
You're  played  out.  The  doctor  will  be  here  in  a 
minute." 

"I  don't  want  a  doctor.  I'm  all  right."  With 
an  effort  she  straightened  and  sat  on  the  side  of  the 
bed.  "I  remember  —  I  was  telling  you " 

"Don't,  Camilla.  I  don't  want  to  hear.  I  be 
lieve  you.  It's  all  a  mistake."  He  bent  over  her 
and  tried  to  take  her  in  his  arms. 

316 


PRIVATE  MATTERS 


But  she  held  up  her  hand  and  gently  restrained 
him.  "No  —  no,"  she  said  shaking  her  head. 
"Don't  try  to  soothe  me.  That  doesn't  mean  any 
thing.  I  know.  Shadows  like  these  are  not  brushed 
away  so  quickly.  Sit  there,  Jeff,  by  the  window  and 
listen.  There's  something  else  I  must  tell  you 

—  I  should  have  told  you  at  once.     It's  what  I 
came  here  for,  but  I  didn't  seem  to  have  the  courage." 

"No,  not  to-night." 

"I  must  —  it  won't  keep.  You  must  listen." 
Her  eyes  pleaded,  and  so  he  sank  into  the  rocking 
chair,  leaning  forward  eagerly.  She  took  up  the 
handbag  beside  her  on  the  table  and  fumbled 
tremblingly  at  the  lock. 

"It's  something  which  concerns  General  Bent  and 
you  • —  no,  not  business,  Jeff  —  something  personal 

—  something  dreadfully  personal  —  which  has  noth 
ing  whatever  to  do  with  your  business  relations, 
and  yet  something  which  seems  to  make  your  hatred 
of  each  other  all  the  more  terrible.     It  —  it  seems 
very  hard  for  me  to  tell  you,  because  it's  something 
you  have  never  liked  to  speak  about  —  something 
that  has  always  made  you  very  unhappy." 

"Why,  what  do  you  mean,  Camilla?"  he  asked. 

"You  must  let  me  tell  you  in  my  own  way,  be 
cause  it  will  be  hard  for  you  to  realize.  I  must 
show  you  that  there  is  no  mistake  —  no  chance  of  a 
mistake,  Jeff.  Two  weeks  ago  at  the  hotel  in  New 
York  I  was  reading  the  letters  in  the  old  tin  box 
and  looking  at  the  photographs.  They  were  in 
the  drawer  of  your  desk.  I've  never  spoken  of 

317 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


them  to  you  or  looked  at  them  since  we  were  married 
—  but  you  were  not  there  to  see  them  and  —  I  —  I 
didn't  think  you'd  mind.  I  had  them  on  your 
desk  when  Mrs.  Rumsen  came  in.  She  saw  the 
photograph  of  your  father.  She  —  she  had  one 
just  like  it  in  her  album  at  home " 

"She  knew  him,  then?"  eagerly. 

"Yes.  I've  brought  both  photographs  with  me." 
She  took  them  out  of  the  handbag  with  trembling 
hands  and  gave  them  to  him. 

He  got  up,  took  them  to  the  light  and  held  them 
side  by  side.  "Yes,  yes,"  he  muttered,  "they 
are  the  same  —  the  very  same.  There's  no  doubt 
about  that. ' '  And  then,  in  a  suppressed  voice,  * '  You 
know  who  he  is?" 

"Yes,  Jeff.  Mrs.  Rumsen  and  I  know  —  no 
one  else  —  not  a  soul  else.  It's  your  secret.  We 
couldn't  tell.  No  one  can  or  will  but  you."  Her 
voice  had  sunk  almost  to  a  whisper.  "It's  —  it's 
the  General  —  Jeff  —  General  Bent." 

Outwardly  Jeff  gave  no  sign  of  unusual  dis 
turbance  —  a  slight  tightening  of  his  thumbs  upon 
the  pictures,  a  slight  bending  of  the  head  that  his 
eyes  might  be  surer  of  their  vision.  But  to  Camilla, 
who  was  watching  him  timidly,  he  seemed  to  grow 
compact,  his  big  frame  to  shrink  into  itself  and  his 
eyes  to  glow  with  a  strange,  unfamiliar  fire. 

"  General  —  Bent  —  General  —  Bent,"  he  re 
peated  the  words  huskily,  as  if  they  were  a  formula 
which  he  was  trying  to  commit  to  memory.  "It 
can't  be  true?" 

318  < 


PRIVATE  MATTERS 


"Yes,  Jeff,  it's  true.  Mrs.  Rumsen  identified 
the  letters.  There's  no  doubt  —  none." 

"I    can't    believe  —  why,     I'd    have   felt    it  — 
Camilla.     I've  always  said  I'd  know  him  if  I  saw 
him." 

"You  didn't  —  but  have  you  thought?  You 
look  like  him,  Jeff.  You  look  like  him." 

"  Yes  —  it's  strange  I  didn't  think  of  that."  And 
then  suddenly,  "Does  he  know?" 

"No  —  he  won't  unless  you  tell  him." 

He  looked  up  at  her  with  dumb,  uncomprehending 
eyes  and  sank  in  his  chair  again,  still  grasping  the 
photographs. 

"I  must  think,"  he  groaned,  "I've  got  to  think  — 
what  to  do.  I've  hated  him  so  —  all  these  long 
years.  I  hate  him  now  —  not  because  he's 
my  —  my  father  —  but  because  —  he's  him 
self." 

"Stop,  Jeff,  you    mustn't  —  you  mustn't  speak 


so." 


"It's  true,"  raising  his  bloodshot  eyes  to  hers. 
"Why  should  I  care?  Did  he  care  for  the  atom  he's 
put  into  the  world  to  float  about  without  a  name 
to  land  on  any  dung-hill?  I'll  pay  him  back  for 
that,  by  God!  I'm  not  his  son.  The  only  thing 
I  want  of  his  blood  is  his  cruelty.  I'll  take  that  and 
use  it  when  I  can  —  on  him  and  his." 

"You  musn't,  Jeff.  It's  horrible.  I  can't  stand 
hearing  this." 

At  the  touch  of  her  hand  he  stopped,  got  up  and 
paced  the  length  of  the  room  and  back  again  in 

319 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


grim  silence,  his  lips  working,  while  she  watched 
him,  fearful  of  another  outburst. 

"I  must  think  this  thing  out,  Camilla  —  by 
myself.  I  don't  know  what  I'll  do."  And  then 
suddenly,  "Where  is  he  now?"  he  asked  harshly. 

"In  Denver  —  at  the  Brown  Palace  Hotel.  They 
came  West  before  I  did  with  the  Janneys,  Gret- 
chen,  and  Mrs.  Rumsen.  They  came  in  a  private 
car." 

"To  be  in  at  my  finish,"  he  muttered  bitterly. 
"I  can't  seem  to  think,  Camilla.  It's  all  so  mon 
strous  —  it  staggers  me." 

He  stopped  pacing  the  floor  and  looked  at  her, 
suddenly  realizing  how  ill  she  had  been,  and  contrite 
and  self-accusing  he  fell  on  his  knees  at  her  feet  and 
put  his  arms  around  her. 

"Camilla!  I  shouldn't  have  let  you  tell  me  all 
this  to-night.  You  were  not  strong  enough.  I've 
been  brutal  to  you  —  to  forget  what  you  were 
suffering.  You  must  sleep.  My  heart  has  been 
aching  for  you  all  these  long  months.  I'll  take 
care  of  you  and  make  you  strong  and  well  again. 
You're  not  going  back  to  Abilene,  Camilla." 

Slowly  she  disengaged  her  hands. 

:<You  must  go  now,  Jeff.  I  —  I  am  tired.  But 
all  I  need  is  rest.  I  couldn't  have  slept  until  I  told 
you.  It  has  preyed  on  me  like  a  poison.  I  can't 
influence  you,  though.  You  must  use  your  own 
judgment  as  to  what  you'll  do,  but  I  pray  you'll 
do  nothing  rash." 

"You  must  not  go  back  to  Abilene.  There's 
320 


PRIVATE  MATTERS 


much  to  be  explained,  Camilla  —  you  must  promise 
not  to  go  away!  I  want  to  speak  to  you  about 
Rita  Cheyne." 

She  rose  from  her  seat  on  the  bed  with  a  kind  of 
wistful  dignity. 

"I  can't  promise  anything,  Jeff.  Go,  please.  I 
want  to  be  alone." 

He  looked  at  her  a  moment,  pleading,  and  then 
turned  without  a  word  and  went  out.  She  heard 
his  heavy  steps  go  down  the  noisy  hall,  heard  them 
again  on  the  porch  below  and  on  the  boardwalk 
through  the  village  until  they  were  engulfed  in  the 
gloom  of  the  night  —  Jeff's  night  of  anguish,  battle, 
and  temptation. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

THE    INTRUDER 

MEANWHILE,  in  Parlor  A,  next  door,  a 
lady  in  a  pink  kimono,  who  seemed  un 
usually  diminutive  and  childish  in  her 
low-heeled  bedroom  slippers,  pottered  about  un 
easily,  walking  from  window  to  window,  jerking 
a*  the  shades  to  peer  out  of  doors,  and  then  pulling 
the  shades  noisily  down  again;  opening  the  hall 
door,  looking  down  the  corridor,  walking  out  a 
few  steps  and  then  coming  rapidly  back  again,  to 
light  a  cigarette  which  she  almost  immediately 
put  out  and  threw  into  the  stove;  coughing,  drop 
ping  things  —  and  then  standing  tense  and  alert 
to  listen,  acting  altogether  in  a  surprising  and 
unusual  manner.  But  the  sound  of  voices  in  the 
adjoining  room  persevered,  now  loud  —  now  less 
loud,  but  always  perfectly  audible  through  the  thin, 
paper-like  partition.  At  last,  as  though  in  sudden 
desperation,  without  removing  her  clothes,  or  even 
her  slippers,  she  crawled  quickly  into  the  bed  and 
pulled  the  covers  and  pillow  over  her  head,  lying 
still  as  a  mouse,  but  tense  and  alert  in  spite  of  her 
self  and  —  in  spite  of  herself  —  listening.  She 
emerged  again  in  a  while,  half  smothered,  like  a 
diver  coming  to  the  surface,  listening  again,  and 


THE  INTRUDER 


then  with  an  exclamation  quickly  got  out  of  bed, 
her  fingers  at  her  ears,  to  open  the  hall  door  presently 
and  flee  down  the  corridor. 

From  her  vantage  point  —  in  an  empty  room  — 
she  heard  Jeff's  rapid  footsteps  go  past,  and  only 
when  she  heard  them  no  longer  did  she  go  back  to 
Parlor  A.  She  closed  the  outer  door  and  locked  it, 
sat  down  in  an  armchair,  leaning  forward,  her 
head  in  her  hands,  staring  at  a  pink  rose  in  the  ornate 
carpet,  deep  in  thought.  In  the  room  next  door  all 
was  quiet  again.  Once  she  thought  she  heard  the 
sound  of  a  sob,  but  she  could  not  be  sure  of  it,  and 
after  a  while  the  light  which  had  shone  through 
the  wide  crack  under  the  doior  disappeared.  For 
a  long  time  she  sat  there,  immovable  except  for  the 
slight,  quick  tapping  of  one  small  foot  upon  the 
floor. 

At  last  she  rose  with  an  air  of  resolution  and 
touched  the  bell.  To  the  clerk,  who  answered  it 
in  person,  she  asked  for  telegraph  blanks  and  a 
messenger.  He  looked  at  his  watch. 

"The  telegraph  office  is  closed." 

"Well,  it  will  have  to  be  opened.  This  is  a 
matter  which  can't  wait  until  morning.  The 
operator  must  be  found." 

"We  might  get  a  message  through."  He  looked 
at  the  bill  she  had  put  in  his  hand.  "Yes,  I'm 


sure  we  can." 


"And  you  might  send  me  up  some  tea  and  toast." 
She  shut  the  door,  went  to  her  trunk,  took  out  her 
writing  pad,  put  it  on  the  table,  turned  up  the  wick 

323 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


of  the  lamp,  and  began  writing.  She  finished  a 
letter  and  sealed  it  carefully.  When  the  telegraph 
blanks  came  she  wrote  two  rather  lengthy  messages. 
One  of  the  telegrams  was  addressed  to  the  cashier 
of  the  Tenth  National  Bank  of  Denver  —  the  other 
telegram  and  the  letter  were  addressed  to  Lawrence 
Berkely  at  the  Brown  Palace  Hotel  in  the  same  city. 
When  she  had  given  the  messenger  his  instructions, 
she  sank  in  her  chair  again  with  a  sigh,  and,  with  a 
tea  cup  in  one  hand  and  a  piece  of  buttered  toast 
in  the  other,  sat  facing  the  door  into  Parlor  B. 
Her  face  wore  a  curious  expression,  partly  mis 
chievous,  partly  solemn,  but  there  was  at  times  a 
momentary  trace  of  trouble  in  it,  too,  and  when  the 
tea  cup  was  set  aside  she  stretched  her  arms  wearily 
and  then  brought  them  down,  lacing  her  fingers 
behind  her  neck,  putting  her  head  back  and  closing 
her  eyes  as  though  in  utter,  soul-racking  weariness. 
Suddenly  she  rose,  passing  the  back  of  one  wrist 
abruptly  across  her  brows,  and  prepared  to  go  to  bed. 
***** 

Camilla  awoke  late  and  ordered  breakfast  in  her 
room.  It  was  not  bodily  fatigue  which  she  felt  now. 
That  seemed  to  have  passed.  It  was  mental  inertia, 
which,  like  muscular  stiffness,  follows  the  carrying 
of  too  heavy  a  burden.  A  part  of  her  burden  she 
still  carried,  and  even  the  brightness  of  the  Colorado 
sun,  which  dappled  the  tinsel  wall  paper  beside  her, 
failed  to  rekindle  the  embers  of  old  delights.  From 
one  of  her  windows  she  could  see  the  fine  sweep  of 
the  Saguache  range  as  it  extended  its  great  half- 

324 


THE  INTRUDER 


moon  toward  the  northern  end  of  the  valley,  where 
it  joined  the  main  ridge  of  the  Continental  Divide; 
from  the  other  window  the  roofs  of  the  town  below 
her,  Mulrennan's,  the  schoolhouse,  and  Jeff's 
"Watch  Us  Grow"  sign,  now  dwarfed  by  the  brick 
office  building  which  had  risen  behind  it.  It  seemed 
a  hundred  years  since  she  had  lived  in  Mesa  City, 
and  to  her  eyes,  accustomed  to  elegant  distances, 
the  town  seemed  to  have  grown  suddenly  smaller, 
more  ugly,  garish,  and  squalid.  And  yet  it  was 
here  that  she  had  lived  for  five  years  —  five  long 
years  of  youth  and  hope  and  boundless  ambition. 
In  those  days  the  place  had  oppressed  her  with  its 
emptiness,  and  she  had  suffered  for  the  lack  of  oppor 
tunity  to  live  her  life  in  accordance  with  the  dreams 
of  her  school-days;  but  to-day,  when  she  seemed  to 
have  neither  hope  nor  further  ambition,  she  knew 
that  the  early  days  were  days  of  real  happiness. 
What  did  it  matter  if  it  had  been  the  bliss  of  igno 
rance,  since  she  was  now  aware  of  the  folly  of  wisdom? 
She  could  never  be  happy  anywhere  now  —  not  even 
here.  She  lay  back  on  her  pillows  and  closed  her 
eyes,  but  even  then  the  vision  of  Rita  Cheyne  in 
truded  —  a  vision  of  Jeff  and  Rita  Cheyne  riding 
together  over  the  mountain  trails. 

She  was  indeed  unpleasantly  surprised  when,  a 
few  moments  later,  there  was  a  knock  upon  the 
door  at  the  foot  of  her  bed;  and  when  she  had  put 
on  a  dressing  gown  the  door  opened  suddenly,  and 
there  stood  Rita  Cheyne  herself,  smiling  confidently 
and  asking  admittance. 

325 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


Camilla  was  perturbed  —  so  much  so,  in  fact, 
that  no  words  occurred  to  her.  The  door  had  opened 
outward  toward  Rita  Cheyne,  who  held  its  knob. 
It  was,  therefore,  obviously  impossible  for  Camilla 
to  close  it  without  Mrs.  Cheyne' s  assistance.  This, 
it  seemed,  the  visitor  had  no  intention  of  giving, 
for  she  came  forward  on  the  door-sill  and  held  out 
her  hand. 

"Mrs.  Wray,"  she  said  gently,  "I  want  to  come 
in  and  talk  to  you.  May  I?" 

"This  is  —  rather  surprising,"  Camilla  began. 

"Yes,"  she  admitted,  "it  is.  Perhaps  I'm  a  little 
surprised,  too.  I  —  I  wanted  to  talk  to  you.  There 
are  some  things  —  important  things " 

By  this  time  Camilla  had  managed  to  collect 
her  scattered  resources.  "I'm  not  sure,"  she  said 
coolly,  "that  our  friendship  has  ever  been  intimate 
enough  to  warrant " 

Rita  put  one  hand  up  before  her.  "Don't,  Mrs. 
Wray!  It  hasn't.  But  you'll  understand  in  a  mo 
ment,  if  you'll  let  me  come  in  and  talk  to  you." 

Camilla  drew  her  laces  around  her  throat  and  with 
a  shrug  stood  aside.  "I  hope  you'll  be  brief,"  she 
said  coldly.  "Will  you  sit  down?" 

But  Mrs.  Cheyne  had  already  sat  in  a  chair  with 
her  back  to  one  of  the  windows,  where  her  face 
was  partially  obscured  by  the  shadows  of  her 
hair.  She  pulled  her  kimono  about  her  figure, 
clasped  her  fingers  over  her  knees,  and  leaned 
forward,  eagerly  examining  her  companion,  who  had 
seated  herself  uneasily  upon  the  side  of  the  bed. 

326 


THE  INTRUDER 


"You  are  handsome!"  she  said  candidly,  as  if 
settling  a  point  in  her  own  mind  which  had  long 
been  debatable.  "I  don't  think  I  ever  saw  you 
handsomer  than  you  are  at  the  present  moment. 
Trouble  becomes  you,  it  gives  a  meaning  to  the 
shadows  of  your  face  which  they  never  had  before." 

Camilla  started  up  angrily.  "Did  you  come  here 
to  comment  upon  my  appearance?" 

"No,"  said  Rita  suavely.  "I  can't  help  it  — 
that's  all.  Did  you  know  that  you  have  been  the 
means  of  destroying  one  of  my  most  treasured 
ideals?  You  have,  you  know.  I've  always  scoffed 
at  personal  beauty  —  now  I  remain  to  pray.  It's 
a  definite  living  force  —  like  politics  —  or  like  re 
ligion." 

"Really,  Mrs.  Cheyne !" 

"Please  let  me  talk  —  you  would  if  you  only  knew 
what  I'm  going  to  say.  My  remarks  may  seem  irrel 
evant,  but  they're  not.  They're  a  confession  of 
weakness  on  my  part  —  an  acknowledgment  of 
strength  on  yours.  You  never  liked  me  from  the 
first,  and  I  don't  think  I  really  was  very  fond  of 
you.  We  seemed  to  have  been  run  in  different 
moulds.  There's  no  reason  why  we  shouldn't  have 
got  along  because  —  well,  you  know  I'm  not  half 
bad  when  one  really  knows  me;  and  you!  —  you 
have  everything  that  most  people  like  —  you're 
beautiful,  cultured,  clever  and  — and  quite  human." 

Camilla  made  a  gesture  of  impatience,  but  Rita 
went  on  imperturbably.  "You're  handsome,  gentle 
and  human  —  but  you  —  you're  a  dreadful  fool!" 

327 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


And  then,  with  a  laugh,  "Please  sit  down  and 
don't  look  so  tragic.  It's  true,  dear,  perfectly 
true,  and  you'll  be  quite  sure  of  it  in  a  mo 
ment." 

Anger  seemed  so  futile,  Camilla  was  reduced  to 
a  smile  of  contempt.  "I'm  sure  I  can't  be  anything 
but  flattered  at  your  opinions,  Mrs.  Cheyne." 
But,  in  spite  of  herself,  she  was  conscious  of  a  mild 
curiosity  as  to  whither  this  remarkable  conversation 
was  leading. 

"Thanks,"  said  Rita  with  mock  humility. 
"There's  only  one  thing  in  the  world  more  blind 
than  hatred,  and  that's  love.  Because  you  think 
you  hate  me,  you'd  be  willing  to  let  slip  forever 
your  only  chance  of  happiness  in  this  world." 

"I  don't  hate  you,"  said  Camilla  icily,  "and 
luckily  my  happiness  is  not  in  any  way  dependent 
on  what  you  may  say  or  do" 

"Oh,  yes,  it  is,"  said  Rita  quickly.  "I'm  going 
to  prevent  you  from  making  a  mistake.  You've 
already  made  too  many  of  them.  You're  planning 
to  go  away  to  Kansas  when  your  husband  positively 
adores  the  very  ground  you  walk  on." 

Having  shot  her  bolt,  like  the  skillful  archer  she 
put  her  head  on  one  side  and  eagerly  watched  its 
flight.  Camilla  started  up,  one  hand  on  the  bed 
post,  her  color  vanishing. 

"You  — you  heard?" 

"I  — I  know." 

"He  told  you." 

"Who?  Jeff?"  She  leaned  back  in  her  chair 
328 


THE  INTRUDER 


and  laughed  up  at  the  ceiling.  "Well,  hardly. 
I  don't  mind  people  telling  me  they  adore  the  ground 
/  walk  on,  but " 

"How  did  you  know?"  Camilla  glanced  toward 
the  door  and  into  Mrs.  Cheyne's  room,  a  new 
expression  of  dismay  coming  into  her  eyes.  "You 
heard  what  passed  in  here  —  last  night?" 

"Yes  —  something  —  I  couldn't  help  it." 

"How  could  you  —  have  listened?"  Camilla 
gasped. 

"I  tried  not  to  —  I  tried  to  make  you  stop  — 
by  dropping  things  and  making  a  noise,  but  I 
couldn't.  You  didn't  or  wouldn't  hear  —  either 
of  you.  Finally  I  had  to  go  out  of  the  room." 
She  rose  with  a  sudden  impulse  of  sympathy  and 
put  her  hand  on  Camilla's  shoulder. 

"Oh,  don't  think  everything  bad  about  me! 
Can't  you  understand?  Won't  you  realize  that 
at  this  moment  I'm  the  best  friend  you  have  in  the 
world?  Even  if  you  don't  admit  that,  try  to  believe 
that  what  I  say  to  you  is  true.  Why  should  I  risk 
a^rebuff  in  coming  in  here  to  you  if  it  wasn't  with 
a  motive  more  important  than  any  hurt  you 
can  do  to  me?  What  I  say  to  you  is  true. 
Your  husband  loves  you.  He's  mad  about  you. 
Don't  you  understand?"  Camilla  lowered  her 
eyes,  one  of  her  hands  fingering  at  the  bed-cover, 
suddenly  aware  of  the  friendly  pat  on  her  shoulder. 
At  last  she  slowly  raised  her  head  and  found  Rita 
Cheyne's  eyes  with  the  searching,  intrusive  look 
that  one  woman  has  for  another. 
22  329 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


"Why  should  you  tell  me  this?"  she  asked.  Mrs. 
Cheyne  turned  aside  with  a  light  laugh. 

"Why  shouldn't  I?  Is  happiness  so  easily  to  be 
had  in  this  world  that  I'd  refuse  it  —  to  a  friend  if 
it  was  in  my  power  to  give?  I  can't  see  you  throwing 
it  away  for  a  foolish  whim.  That's  what  it  is  — 
a  whim.  You've  got  to  stay  with  Jeff.  What 
right  have  you  to  go?  What  has  he  done  to  deserve 
it?  I  flirted  with  him.  I  acknowledge  it.  What 
is  that?  I  flirt  with  every  man  I  like.  It's  my  way 
of  amusing  myself."  She  straightened,  and,  with 
a  whimsical  smile  which  had  in  it  a  touch  of  effron 
tery,  "The  fact  that  he  still  loves  you  after  that, 
my  dear,"  she  said,  "is  the  surest  proof  of  his  devo 
tion." 

Camilla  looked  away  —  out  of  the  window  toward 
the  "Watch  Us  Grow"  sign,  the  symbol  of  Jeff's 
ambition,  and  her  eyes  softened.  She  got  up  and 
walked  to  the  window  which  faced  the  mountains. 

"If  I  could  only  believe  you  —  if  I  only  could," 
she  said,  and  then,  turning  suddenly,  "Why  did  you 
try  to  make  Jeff  fall  in  love  with  you?" 

Rita  shrugged.  "Simply  because  —  because  it 
was  impossible.  I'm  so  tired  of  doing  easy  things. 
I've  always  done  everything  I  wanted  to,  and  it 
bored  me.  I  owe  your  husband  a  debt.  I  thought 
all  men  were  the  same.  Do  you  really  think  there 
are  any  more  like  Jeff?" 

Camilla  watched  her  narrowly,  probing  shrewdly 
below  the  surface  for  traces  of  the  vein  of  feeling 
she  had  shown  a  moment  before.  What  she  dis- 

330 


THE  INTRUDER 


covered  was  little,  but  that  little  seemed  to  satisfy 
her,  for,  after  a  pause,  in  which  she  twisted  the 
window  cord  and  then  untwisted  it  again,  she  came 
forward  slowly,  took  Rita  by  both  hands  and  looked 
deep  into  her  eyes. 

"Why  did  you  come  out  here?" 

It  was  no  time  for  equivocation.  Camilla's  eyes 
burned  steadily,  oh,  so  steadily.  But  Rita  did  not 
flinch. 

"I  thought  Jeff  was  lonely.  I  thought  he  needed 
some  one,  and  so  I  came  out  in  the  Bents'  private 
car  as  far  as  Denver.  I  left  them  there  and  came  on 
alone.  I  wanted  to  help  him  —  I'm  trying  to 
help  him  still  —  with  my  sympathy,  my  money  — 
and  —  and  such  influence  as  I  can  use  to  make  his 
wife  realize  her  duty  to  him  and  her  duty  to  herself." 

It  was  an  explanation  which  somehow  did  not  seem 
to  explain,  and  yet  curiously  enough  it  satisfied 
Camilla.  If  it  was  not  the  whole  truth,  there  was 
enough  of  it  that  was  nothing  but  the  truth.  She 
felt  that  it  would  not  have  been  fair  to  ask  for 
more.  Rita  was  not  slow  to  follow  up  this  advan 
tage.  She  gave  a  quick  sigh,  then  took  Camilla  by 
both  shoulders.  "You  musn't  go  away  to  Kansas, 
I  tell  you.  You've  never  loved  anybody  but  Jeff. 
Cortland  knows  it,  and  I  know  it.  I've  known  it 
all  the  while.  A  woman  has  a  way  of  learning  these 
things.  If  you  leave  him  now  there's  no  telling 
what  may  happen.  He  needs  you.  He  can't  get 
on  without  you.  They're  trying  to  crush  the  life 
out  of  him  in  this  soulless  war  for  the  smelter, 

331 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


and  they  may  succeed.  He's  pushed  to  the  limit  of 
his  resourcefulness  and  his  endurance.  Flesh  and 
blood  can't  stand  that  strain  long.  He  needs  all  his 
friends  now  and  every  help,  moral  and  physical, 
that  they  can  give  him.  There's  no  one  else  who 
can  take  your  place  now.  No  one  to  stand  at  his 
side  and  take  the  bad  with  the  good.  You've  had 
your  half  of  his  success  —  now  you  must  take  your 
half  of  his  failure.  You're  his  wife,  Camilla!  Do 
you  understand  that?  His  wife!" 

A  sob  welled  up  in  Camilla's  throat  and  took  her 
unawares.  She  bent  her  head  to  hide  it  —  and  then 
gave  way  and  fell  on  the  bed  in  a  passion  of  tears. 

Rita  watched  her  for  a  moment  with  a  smile,  for 
she  knew  that  the  tears  were  tears  of  happiness, 
then  went  over  and  put  her  arms  around  Camilla's 
shoulders,  murmuring  gently: 

"You're  not  to  blame,  Camilla  —  not  altogether 
—  and  it's  not  too  late  to  begin  again.  He  needs 
you  now  as  he  has  never  needed  you  before.  It's 
your  opportunity.  I  hope  you  see  it." 

"I  do,  I  do,"  came  faintly  from  the  coverlid. 

"You  must  see  him  at  once.  Do  you  under 
stand?  Shall  I  send  for.  him?  " 

"Yes,  soon."  Camilla  sat  up  and  smiled  through 
her  tears,  drew  Rita  down  alongside  of  her,  put 
her  arm  around  her  and  kissed  her  on  the  cheek. 

"I  understand  you  now.  I'm  sorry  —  for  many 
things.  I  want  to  know  you  better,  dear.  May  I?" 

"Yes,"  said  Rita  calmly,  "if  you  can.  Perhaps 
then  you  might  explain  me  to  myself.  But  I'm 

332 


THE  INTRUDER 


going  to  New  York  again  soon  —  something  tells 
me  you  are  to  stay  here." 

"I  will  stay  here  now,"  said  Camilla  proudly, 
"if  Jeff  wants  me.  Are  you  sure  —  sure  —  he " 

Rita  held  her  off  at  arm's  length,  quizzically — 
tantalizing  her  purposely. 

"No,  silly.  He  loves  me,  of  course  —  that's 
why  I'm  presenting  him  to  you."  Then  she  leaned 
forward,  kissed  her  on  the  cheek,  and  rose  quickly. 

"It's  pretty  late.  I  must  catch  the  eleven  o'clock 
train.  I  have  a  lot  to  do.  I'm  going  into  my  own 
room." 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  outer  door.  Camilla 
answered  it  and  received  a  note  from  the  clerk. 

"From  Mr.  Wray's  office.     There's  no  answer." 

She  opened  it  hurriedly,  while  Rita  watched. 

"Dear  Camilla"  (it  ran):  "I'm  leaving  sud 
denly  by  the  early  train  for  Denver  on  a  business 
matter  which  to  me  means  either  life  or  death. 
For  the  love  of  God  don't  leave  me  now.  Wait 
until  I  return.  I'm  going  to  the  Brown  Palace  Hotel 
and  will  write  you  from  there. 

"JEFF." 

She  read  through  the  hurried  scrawl  twice  and 
then  silently  handed  it  to  her  companion. 

"You  must  follow,  Camilla  —  at  once  —  with 
me,"  said  Mrs.  Cheyne. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

GRETCHEN    DECIDES 

LAWRENCE  BERKELY  was  doing  scout 
duty  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  seat  of 
war,  keeping  closely  in  ^touch  with  Wray 
by  wire  code.  Although  he  had  a  room  at  the 
Brown  Palace  Hotel,  he  went  elsewhere  for  his  meals, 
and  since  the  arrival  of  General  Bent's  party  he 
had  eluded  the  detection  of  Cornelius  Bent,  Curtis 
Janney,  or  Cortland.  He  had  been  advised  by  a 
brief  wire  from  Gretchen  Janney  of  the  date  of 
her  departure  from  New  York  and  had  noted  the 
arrival  of  his  business  enemies  with  mingled  feelings. 
In  response  to  his  note  to  her  room  Gretchen  had 
stolen  away  and  met  him  quietly  in  one  of  the  hotel 
parlors,  where,  unknown  to  Curtis  Janney,  they 
had  renewed  their  vows  of  eternal  fidelity. 

Gretchen  was,  of  course,  familiar  with  Larry's 
position  as  a  business  rival  of  her  father's  pet  com 
pany,  and  she  had  thought  it  best,  since  Larry's 
departure  from  New  York,  to  keep  their  engagement 
a  secret  from  her  parents.  She  had  heard  from  him 
regularly,  and  distance,  it  seemed,  had  made  no 
difference  in  the  nature  of  her  feelings  for  him,  but 
she  knew  from  her  father's  disappointment  at 
Cortland  Bent's  defection  that  the  time  to  take 

334 


GRETCHEN  DECIDES 


her  parents  into  her  confidence  had  not  yet  ar 
rived. 

It  had  not  occurred  to  Curtis  Janney  to  think 
of  Lawrence  Berkely's  attentions  seriously,  but 
Gretchen  knew  that  her  mother,  at  least,  had 
breathed  a  sigh  of  relief  when  Larry  had  left  New 
York.  Mrs.  Janney  had  questioned  her  daughter 
anxiously,  but  Gretchen  had  answered  in  riddles, 
and  in  the  end  had  succeeded  in  convincing  her 
that  marriage  was  the  last  thing  in  the  world  she 
was  thinking  of.  Gretchen  was  a  little  afraid  of 
her  father.  Once  or  twice  he  had  expressed  himself 
rather  freely  as  to  the  kind  of  man  he  expected  his 
daughter  to  marry,  from  which  it  was  clear  that  his 
list  of  eligibles  did  not  include  Lawrence  Berkely. 
She  had  written  all  of  this  tearfully  to  Larry,  so 
that  when  she  reached  Denver  he  decided  that 
matters  had  reached  a  crisis  which  demanded  some 
sort  of  an  understanding  with  Janney  pere.  The 
clandestine  meetings,  which  rather  appealed  to 
Gretchen's  sense  of  the  romantic,  made  Larry 
unhappy.  He  had  nothing  to  be  ashamed  of  and 
saw  no  reason  why  he  had  to  court  the  woman  he 
loved  under  cover  of  darkness.  So  he  made  up  his 
mind  to  settle  the  thing  in  his  own  way. 

In  this  crisis  it  had  occurred  to  Gretchen  to 
enlist  Mrs.  Cheyne's  services  in  their  behalf,  for 
Rita  had  always  been  a  favorite  of  her  father's; 
but  an  evening  or  two  after  her  arrival  in  Denver 
that  lady  had  mysteriously  disappeared  from  the 
hotel,  only  leaving  word  that  she  had  gone  to  visit 

335 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


friends  in  the  neighborhood  and  would  advise  General 
Bent  of  her  future  plans.  .  No  one  but  Larry,  with 
whom  she  had  been  talking,  had  for  a  moment  sus 
pected  that  the  "friends"  in  the  neighborhood  were 
only  Jeff,  and,  though  she  had  not  bound  Larry  to 
secrecy,  both  duty  and  discretion  demanded  his 
silence. 

Larry's  position  was  difficult,  but  when  he  dis 
covered  that  nothing  was  to  be  gained  by  keeping 
his  movements  hidden  from  Cornelius  Bent  he  took 
the  bull  by  the  horns  and  boldly  sent  up  his  card 
to  Curtis  Janney's  suite.  He  was  so  full  of  his 
own  affairs  that  Mr.  Janney's  possible  misconcep 
tion  of  the  object  of  his  visit  had  not  occurred  to 
him.  He  was  welcomed  cordially  —  so  jovially, 
in  fact,  that  for  a  moment  he  was  taken  off  his 
guard. 

"Well,  Berkely,  by  George!  glad  to  see  you. 
Rather  a  surprise  to  find  us  all  out  here  invading 
your  own  country,  eh?" 

Larry  sat  rather  soberly,  refused  a  cigar,  and 
expressed  well-bred  surprise. 

"I  can't  imagine  anybody  wanting  to  leave 
Braebank  in  April,"  he  said. 

"Well,  I  didn't  want  to,  Berkely  — I'm  doing 
a  little  scientific  farming  this  summer  —  but  we 
had  to  come  out  on  this  smelter  business  —  the 

General  and  I "  He  stopped  and  puffed  rapidly 

at  his  cigar.  "It's  too  bad  —  really  —  I'm  sorry, 
sorry,  but  I  think  Wray  made  a  mistake.  I  like  Wray, 
Berkely.  He's  got  stuff  in  him,  but  he  overleaped 

336 


GRETCHEN  DECIDES 


himself  in  this  smelter  business.  It's  a  pity  he 
thought  he  had  to  fight  us,  but  you've  got  to  admit 
we  gave  him  every  chance." 

"I  didn't  come  to  see  you  about  the  smelter 
business,  Mr.  Janney,"  said  Berkely  rather  quietly, 
"but  on  a  matter  of  my  own  —  a  personal  —  a 
private  matter." 

Janney's  face  grew  grave. 

"A  private  matter?" 

"Yes,  sir."  Larry  closed  his  lips  firmly  for  a 
moment,  and  then  came  to  the  point  without  further 
words.  "Mr.  Janney,  I  suppose  I  should  have 
spoken  to  you  before  I  left  New  York.  Our  business 
relations  seemed  to  make  it  difficult.  But  the  very 
fact  that  we  can't  be  friends  in  business  makes  it 
necessary  for  me,  at  least,  to  be  honest  with  you  in 
this  other  matter." 

"What  on  earth  are  you  driving  at?" 

"I  want  to  marry  your  daughter,  sir,  that's  all," 
said  Larry  with  the  suddenness  of  desperation. 

"Gretchen?  My  daughter?"  Janney  said,  ex 
plosively.  He  rose,  with  one  hand  on  the  back  of 
his  chair,  and  glared  at  Larry  as  though  he  doubted 
his  sanity.  "You  want  to  marry  Gretchen?" 
Then  he  laughed  —  and  Larry  discovered  in  that 
laugh  wherein  Janney  and  General  Bent  had  points 
of  contact.  Janney  took  three  long  strides  to  the 
window,  then  wheeled  suddenly.  "You  must  be 
crazy.  My  daughter  —  marry  you?" 

Larry  had  risen  and  met  Janney's  impertinent 
scrutiny  with  some  dignity. 

337 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


*'  Yes,  sir;  I'm  not  aware  of  anything  in  my  family, 
my  connections,  my  prospects,  or  my  character 
which  can  be  found  objectionable.  Your  daughter 
cares  for  me " 

"Why,  you  insolent  young  fortune-hunter!" 

"Wait  a  moment!"  and  Larry's  voice  dominated. 
"You'll  speak  to  me  as  one  gentleman  does  to 
another  —  or  you'll  not  speak  to  me  at  all."  He  took 
up  his  hat  from  the  table,  and  then,  more  evenly,  "I 
take  it,  you  refuse  your  consent?" 

By  this  time  Curtis  Janney's  usual  poise  had 
completely  deserted  him. 

"Refuse  —  my  consent?     Well,  rather!" 

He  went  to  the  door  through  which  Berkely  had 
entered.  But  instead  of  opening  the  door  Janney 
turned  and  put  his  back  to  it. 

"See  here,  young  man,  you  don't  like  my  lan 
guage.  Perhaps  you'll  like  it  less  when  I'm  through 
talking.  Colorado  seems  to  breed  big  ambitions. 
I  know  nothing  of  your  family  and  care  less.  But  I  do 
know  something  of  your  prospects.  Inside  of  forty- 
eight  hours  you  won't  have  prospects  of  any  kind. 
You're  going  to  be  blotted  out.  Do  you  understand ? 
I've  made  other  plans  for  my  daughter  —  and  I'm 
not  in  the  mood  to  listen  to  any  silly  romantic 
nonsense  from  her  or  any  far-sighted  propositions 
from  you.  Your  proposal  is  impudent  sir,  d  —  d 
impudent  —  the  proposition  of  a  desperate  man 
who,  failing  to  win  by  fair  means " 

"Will  you  open  the  door,  sir?"  said  Larry,  now 
white  with  rage.  "If  not,  I'll  find  means  to  open 


GRETCHEN  DECIDES 


it  myself."  He  took  a  step  forward,  and  the  two 
men  glared  into  each  other's  eyes  not  a  pace  apart. 
There  was  no  mistaking  Larry's  determination,  and 
Mr.  Janney's  surprise  was  manifest.  This  was 
not  the  manner  of  the  fortune-hunters  he  had  met. 
Somewhat  uncertainly  he  stood  aside,  and  Berkely 
put  his  hand  on  the  door-knob. 

"I  did  you  an  honor  in  consulting  you,  sir.  It's 
a  pity  you  couldn't  appreciate  it.  In  the  future 
I'll  act  on  my  own  initiative.  Good  afternoon." 

And,  before  the  older  man  had  even  realized  what 
the  words  meant,  Larry  had  opened  the  door  and 
was  gone.  He  hurried  down  the  corridor,  still 
trembling  at  the  meaning  of  Janney's  insults,  which 
had  touched  his  Southern  pride.  For  Gretchen's 
sake  it  would  have  been  better  if  he  could  have  kept 
himself  under  control,  and  he  realized  that  he  had 
lost  every  chance  of  getting  Curtis  Janney's  per 
mission  and  approval.  But  that  did  not  daunt 
him.  He  had  acquitted  his  mind  of  a  responsibility, 
and  he  was  glad  that  in  the  future  there  could  be 
no  misunderstanding.  If  he  could  not  marry 
Gretchen  with  the  approval  of  her  family,  he  would 
marry  her  without  it. 

Halfway  up  the  block  above  the  hotel  on  Seven 
teenth  Street  Larry  stopped,  able  for  the  first  time 
to  review  more  calmly  the  incidents  of  the  last  half 
hour.  What  was  it  Curtis  Janney  had  said  about 
his  prospects?  In  forty-eight  hours  he  would  be 
wiped  off  the  earth.  That  meant  Jeff,  too.  He  had 
a  sudden  guilty  sense  of  shock,  that  in  his  selfish 

339 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


absorption  in  his  own  affairs  he  had  for  the  moment 
forgotten  Jeff  and  the  business  of  the  Company. 
Forty-eight  hours!  That  was  important  informa 
tion  —  and  Janney  had  let  it  slip  in  anger  —  there 
was  no  doubt  about  that.  What  did  it  mean? 
That  all  the  Amalgamated  Company's  wires  were 
laid,  and  the  only  thing  left  was  to  touch  the  button 
which  would  blow  the  Wray  interests  to  pieces? 

It  looked  that  way,  and  yet  Larry  still  hoped. 
The  rails  of  the  Saguache  Short  Line  would  be  joined 
to  those  of  the  D.  &  C.  to-morrow.  Much  de 
pended  on  Symonds.  Larry  hurried  over  to  the 
offices  of  the  Denver  and  California  and  emerged 
later  with  a  look  of  satisfaction.  Symonds  was  still 
General  Manager  and  was  still  loyal.  Within 
thirty-six  hours,  at  his  orders,  a  locomotive  and  one 
passenger  car  from  the  D.  &  C.  yards  at  Pueblo 
would  carry  Clinton,  Symonds,  Mulrennan,  Judge 
Weigel,  and  other  stockholders  of  the  Development 
Company  from  Pueblo  over  the  line  to  Saguache, 
establishing  their  connection  at  Pueblo  in  accord 
ance  with  Jeff's  agreements  with  the  road.  It 
would  take  some  queer  construction  of  the  law 
for  Jeff's  enemies  to  get  around  that.  Larry  knew 
that  it  meant  a  long  fight,  one  which  lack  of  money 
might  lose  in  the  end,  but  he  assured  himself  that 
he  could  establish  a  nice  legal  point  which  would 
be  worth  fighting  for.  The  calling  of  Jeff's  loans 
by  the  banks  was  a  more  dangerous  matter.  Larry 
had  hoped  that  this  could  have  been  arranged,  but 
only  a  small  amount  of  the  money  had  been  forth- 

340 


GRETCHEN  DECIDES 


coming,  and  where  Jeff  was  going  to  raise  the  rest 
of  it  Providence  only  knew! 

When  Larry  reached  his  room  at  the  hotel  he 
found  a  brief  note  from  Gretchen: 

"I  have  heard  about  everything.  I  shall  never 
speak  to  father  again.  You  must  marry  me  at  once, 
Larry.  I  can't  stand  the  suspense  any  longer. 
Mother  is  here  with  me,  but  I'm  going  to  get  away 
somehow.  Meet  me  at  the  Shirley  at  ten  o'clock." 

Larry  smiled  and  kissed  the  penciled  scrawl 
rapturously.  "  God  bless  you,  I'll  do  it  —  Gretchen, 
dear,"  he  said  to  himself. 

That  was  a  busy  evening  for  Larry.  It  was  six 
o'clock  when  he  wrote  a  line  to  Gretchen  and  rang 
for  a  page,  to  whom  he  gave  careful  instructions  — 
also,  some  money.  Then  he  sat  at  his  desk  and  with 
his  code  sent  a  long  wire  to  Jeff.  At  half-past  six 
he  was  dressing  carefully  in  the  intervals  between 
packing  a  suit  case  and  'phoning  to  a  legal  friend  of 
his,  Dick  Wetherall,  about  a  minister  and  a  license. 
At  seven-thirty  he  dined  with  Wetherall.  At  eight 
he  received  Rita  Cheyne's  mysterious  wire.  At 
nine  he  found  the  cashier  of  the  Tenth  National 
Bank  at  his  home  and  planned  for  the  taking  up 
of  the  Development  Company's  notes  and  arrang 
ing  to  deposit  Mrs.  Cheyne's  money  to  Jeff  Wray's 
account  on  the  following  morning.  At  ten  he  met 
Gretche.1  at  e  Shirley  Hotel,  and,  at  half -past  ten, 
had  married  her. 

***** 

In  response  to  Larry's  first  telegram  and  speeding 
341 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


eastward  on  the  early  train,  Jeff  Wray  read  all  this 
astonishing  news  in  the  sheaf  of  telegrams  handed 
him  at  the  station  by  Ike  Matthews.  His  brow 
lifted,  and  the  hard  lines  at  his  mouth  relaxed  in 
a  smile.  Good  old  Larry!  He  tried  to  conjure  a 
vision  of  Curtis  Janney's  face  as  he  heard  the  news. 
Larry  was  carrying  the  war  into  the  enemy's  camp 
with  a  vengeance. 

It  took  Jeff  longer  to  decipher  the  second  telegram: 

"  Mrs.  Cheyne  has  arranged  with  her  Denver  agents 
—  deposit  eight  hundred  thousand  dollars  your 
credit  Tenth  National  to-morrow  morning.  Await 
instructions." 

It  seemed  incredible.  When  had  Rita  done  this? 
The  grim  lines  that  his  long  night's  vigil  had  seared 
at  the  corners  of  his  mouth  grew  deeper,  but  his 
eyes  glowed  with  a  sombre  fire.  There  was  still  an 
even  chance  to  win  —  for  Larry  was  holding  the 
fort  awaiting  reinforcements,  and  Rita  Cheyne  had 
restored  the  break  in  Jeff's  line  of  communication. 
The  astonishing  information  in  Larry's  last  wire 
seemed  to  clear  his  mind  of  the  doubts  which  had 
assailed  it  all  night  long.  The  possibility  of  success 
now  gave  his  own  affairs  a  different  complexion. 
He  could  never  have  told  the  truth  to  General  Bent 
(Jeff  couldn't  think  of  him  as  a  father)  unless  he 
won  the  fight  for  the  independence  of  the  Saguache 
Smelter.  Jeff  was  no  man  to  come  cringing  in 
the  hour  of  failure  at  the  feet  of  his  enemy,  asking 
immunity  on  the  strength  of  such  a  relationship 
as  that  which  existed  between  them.  It  had  been 

342 


GRETCHEN  DECIDES 


clear  to  Jeff  all  night  long  that  if  he  lost  his  fight 
he  could  never  face  General  Bent  with  the  truth. 
That  was  the  real  bitterness  of  defeat. 

But  if  he  won?  The  long  years  of  dishonor 
through  which  he  had  struggled,  without  a  name, 
without  kindred,  without  friends,  loomed  large 
before  him  —  mute,  merciless  years  of  struggle, 
privation,  and  emptiness.  If  he  won,  there  was 
more  than  one  victory  to  be  gained  in  this  fight,  a 
moral  victory  as  well  as  a  physical  one  —  the  triumph 
of  an  eternal  truth,  the  vindication  of  a  forgotten 
wrong.  If  he  won  he  would  tell  General  Bent 
the  truth  —  not  as  a  son  to  a  father,  but  as  one 
merciless  enemy  to  another,  asking  no  quarter  and 
giving  none. 

The  only  connection  for  Kinney  at  Saguache  was 
with  the  later  train,  but  Jeff  had  arranged  for  a 
motor-car  which  took  him  over  the  Pass  and  landed 
him  at  Kinney  in  time  for  the  twelve  o'clock  train 
for  Denver,  where  he  arrived  at  six  o'clock  that 
evermg.  Larry  met  him  at  the  station,  smiling 
broadly. 

"I  think  we've  put  a  spoke  in  their  wheel,  Jeff," 
he  laughed.  "But  we  must  keep  dark.  To-morrow 
morning  when  the  banks  open  you're  going  to  take  up 
that  stock,  then  we're  going  to  call  on  the  General." 

"Is  everything  all  right?" 

"Yes,  Symonds  is  standing  pat,  but  they  don't 
know  it.  The  new  General  Manager  comes  in  to 
morrow,  but  Symonds's  orders  will  go  through  first. 
That  train  will  run,  Jeff  —  sure." 

343 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


"Poor  old  Larry!  a  fine  honeymoon  you're  having! 
Where's  your  wife?" 

"At  the  Wetherall  Ranch.  Went  out  there  last 
night.  Her  mother  has  been  out  to  see  her.  It 
looks  as  though  they  might  come  around.  It's 
too  bad  I  had  to  go  against  them  just  now,  but  Mr. 
Janney  forced  my  hand,  and  I  had  to.  You  under 
stand,  don't  you,  Jeff?"  And,  explaining  as  they 
went,  Berkely  followed  Jeff  out  of  the  station,  into 
a  motor-car  that  was  awaiting  them. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

THE    CRISIS 

ONE  of  the  rooms  in  Janney's  suite  had  been 
turned  into  an  office  for  General  Bent, 
and  here  it  was  that  all  the  conferences 
between  the  officers  of  the  Amalgamated  Reduction 
Company  and  their  underlings  had  taken  place. 
The  big  men  of  Denver  had  all  called  to  pay  their 
respects  to  the  bigger  man  from  the  East,  and 
some  of  them  had  taken  part  in  the  business  of 
reorganizing  the  Denver  and  California  and  its  sub 
sidiary  companies. 

But  in  spite  of  the  conditions  which  had  made 
Bent's  control  of  the  railroad  possible  and  the  money 
the  crowd  would  make  out  of  it,  everybody  in  this 
intimate  circle  knew  that  the  real  object  of  the 
General's  financial  operations  was  the  fight  of  the 
Amalgamated  Reduction  Company  for  the  owner 
ship  of  the  Saguache  Smelter.  The  reorganization 
of  the  Denver  and  California  had  now  been  com 
pleted,  and  this  morning  orders  had  gone  forth 
removing  Clinton,  Symonds,  and  all  the  old  crowd 
from  the  active  management  of  the  road. 

General  Bent  sat  at  the  end  of  the  long  desk 
table  in  conference  with  Curtis  Janney,  Cortland 
Bent,  and  a  youngish-oldish,  keen-eyed  man  in  a 
23  345 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


cutaway  coat  and  white  waistcoat.  This  was  Henry 
McCabe  of  Denver  —  attorney  for  the  Amalga 
mated  —  the  shrewdest  lawyer  west  of  the  Mis 
souri  River,  and  one  of  the  shrewdest  east  of  it.  In 
front  of  McCabe  on  the  desk  was  a  leather  portfolio 
from  which  a  number  of  papers  protruded.  Behind 
him  sat  a  clerk  who  had  been  taking  down  in  short 
hand  his  questions  and  the  replies  of  two  men  at 
the  farther  end  of  the  table.  These  men  were 
roughly  dressed,  and,  though  at  the  present  moment 
each  of  them  smoked  one  of  Curtis  Janney's  re 
markable  cigars,  they  sat  aloof  and  uncomfortable 
on  their  gilt  chairs,  assuming  attitudes  of  ease  they 
were  far  from  feeling.  One  of  the  strangers  was 
Max  Reimer,  the  man  who  had  discovered  the  lost 
vein  in  the  "Lone  Tree "  mine.  The  other  was  Fritz 
Weyl,  one-time  barkeeper  of  Pete  Mulrennan's 
saloon  in  Mesa  City. 

McCabe's  examination  had  hardly  been  concluded 
when  two  cards  were  brought  in  by  a  page  and 
handed  to  Cortland  Bent.  He  glanced  at  them, 
and  then,  without  comment,  laid  them  on  the 
table  before  his  father. 

"H  —  m!  He's  here  now,"  muttered  the  General, 
staring  grimly.  "He's  saved  us  the  trouble  of 
sending  for  him."  He  tossed  the  cards  on  the 
table  and  rose.  "There's  nothing  more  you 
wanted  to  ask,  was  there,  McCabe?" 

"No,  sir,  nothing.     I  know  all  I  need  to." 

"I  thought  so.  Will  you  take  these  men  down 
stairs?  But  have  them  within  call  —  I  may  need 

346 


THE  CRISIS 


them.  Have  Harbison  handy,  too.  Curtis,  you'll 
stay,  of  course  —  and  you,  Cort."  Then  to  the 
waiting  servant,  "Show  these  gentlemen  up." 

When  Wray  and  Berkely  entered,  General  Bent 
had  resumed  his  chair  at  the  head  of  the  table,  and 
Cortland  and  Curtis  Janney  sat  on  either  side  of 
him.  The  General's  head  was  bent  forward  in  its 
customary  pose,  his  shaggy  brows  lowered  so  that  his 
eyes  were  scarcely  visible,  but  in  the  smile  that 
twisted  one  end  of  his  thin  lips  Berkely  read  a 
sardonic  confidence  in  the  outcome  of  the  interview. 
On  entering  the  room  Wray  fixed  his  wide  gaze 
on  General  Bent,  his  eyes  gleaming  strangely,  and 
kept  it  on  him  as  though  fascinated,  until,  at  a  word 
from  Cortland  Bent,  he  sank  into  a  chair  beside 
Berkely.  Aside  from  this  civility,  no  amenities 
passed.  General  Bent  had  sunk  back  in  his  arm 
chair,  coolly  swinging  his  glasses  by  their  cord,  while 
he  keenly  eyed  Berkely,  who  had  begun  talking. 
Curtis  Janney,  trying  to  bury  his  personal  animosi 
ties  in  the  present  issue,  folded  his  stout  arms 
resolutely  and  leaned  forward  upon  the  table. 

"We  understand,  General  Bent,  that  it  is  you  — 
representing  Eastern  interests  —  who  have  obtained 
a  majority  of  the  stock  of  the  Denver  and  California 
Railroad  Company.  Am  I  correctly  informed?" 

General  Bent's  head  dropped  the  fraction  of  an 
inch.  "Your  information  is  correct,"  he  said 
shortly. 

"As  general  counsel  for  the  Saguache  Short 
Line,"  Berkely  went  on,  "I  am  here  to  inform  you 

347 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


that,  in  accordance  with  a  contract  entered  into  in 
March  of  last  year,  the  Denver  and  California  made 
certain  traffic  arrangements  with  my  Company 
conditional  upon  the  completion  of  the  Saguache 
Short  Line  upon  a  specified  date.  My  company 
accepted  these  conditions  and  has  succeeded  in 
carrying  out  to  the  letter  the  terms  of  its  agree 
ments  " 

"One  moment,  Mr.  Berkely,"  put  in  the  General 
with  a  vague  attempt  to  be  humorous,  "if  I  may  ask, 
what  is  the  Saguache  Short  Line?  A  telegraph, 
stage,  or  railroad  company?" 

Wray's  jaw  set,  and  he  glared  angrily,  but  Berkely 
only  smiled. 

"A  railroad  company,  sir,"  he  said  with  suave 
directness,  "controlling  a  right  of  way  from  Pueblo 
to  Saguache  —  the  most  direct  line  from  the  Sa 
guache  to  the  market.  Our  tracks  are  laid,  our  signals 
in  place,  our  stations  built,  and  this  morning  we 
are  advised  that  the  Denver  and  California  is  run 
ning  its  first  train  through  from  Pueblo  to  Saguache ! " 

The  three  men  started,  and  Berkely  grinned. 

"I  may  add  that  in  addition  to  Mr.  Clinton 
(who  at  ten  o'clock  this  morning  had  not  yet  re 
tired  from  the  presidency  of  your  road),  the  train 
also  carries  other  officers  of  your  company  as  well 
as  stockholders  of  mine.  A  lunch  has  been  provided 
at  the  northern  terminus  of  the  road,  and  a  spirit 
of  harmony  dominates  the  occasion  —  one  which 
I'm  sure  you'll  admit  is  noteworthy  in  every  par 
ticular." 

348 


THE  CRISIS 


General  Bent's  brow  twitched  ominously.  "I 
hope,  Mr.  Berkely,  you'll  come  to  the  point  without 
delay,"  he  said. 

"Willingly.  The  Saguache  Short  Line  has  ful 
filled  its  part  of  the  contract.  The  present  officers 
of  your  company  are  willing  to  carry  out  theirs . 
The  object  of  our  visit  was  merely  to  reassure  our 
selves  of  your  friendly  disposition  —  the  friendly 
disposition  of  the  newly  elected  officers  of  your 
road  —  and  to  arrange  with  all  proper  haste  a 
practical  schedule  for  the  operation  of  the  line." 

Larry  paused  and  sank  back  in  his  chair  with  a  smile. 
General  Bent  had  risen  and  was  leaning  forward  over 
the  table  toward  Berkely,  his  face  a  thunder-cloud. 

"You  want  a  schedule,  do  you?"  he  growled,  his 
voice  deepening.  "Well,  I'll  give  you  one  —  I'll 
give  it  to  you  now,  and  it  won't  take  a  great  while, 
either.  As  long  as  I'm  in  control  of  the  Denver 
and  California  Railroad  Company  not  a  wheel  shall 
turn  on  your  little  jerk-water  line  within  a  mile  of 
Pueblo.  That's  my  answer  to  your  proposition. 
Our  yard  limit  marks  your  terminus  —  do  you 
understand?  Get  your  ore  there  if  you  can  find 
any,"  he  finished  brutally. 

But  Berkely  refused  to  lose  his  temper. 

" You're  aware,  of  course,"  he  said  coolly,  "that 
such  a  policy  is  likely  to  prove  expensive?" 

"You'll  have  to  show  that." 

"I  think  we  will.  But  I  can't  believe  that  ycu 
repudiate  this  contract,"  said  Larry,  tapping  a 
paper  with  his  forefinger. 

349 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


"I  didn't  make  that  contract.  I  would  never 
have  made  it.  The  courts  will  pass  on  its  validity." 

"Then  this  is  final?" 

"Absolutely.  Is  there  anything  more  you  want 
to  say?" 

"I  think  that's  all,  General  Bent,"  said  Berkely, 
rising.  "I  had  hoped  you  would  have  been  willing 
to  meet  us  in  a  fair  spirit.  Failing  to  discover 
that  —  either  in  your  attitude  or  your  demeanor  — 
I  suppose  there  is  nothing  else  to  be  said." 

"One  moment,"  interrupted  the  General,  sinking 
back  in  his  chair  with  an  effort  at  self-control. 
"Sit  down,  please.  There's  something  more  to 
be  said  —  something  which  you  both  may  be  in 
terested  to  hear."  And  he  addressed  his  remarks 
directly  to  Wray.  "I  can't  say  that  I've  watched 
your  efforts  to  put  your  plans  through  without  some 
interest,  Mr.  Wray.  Under  other  circumstances 
I  may  say  that  I  would  have  been  compelled  to  a 
kind  of  admiration  for  your  fruitless  perseverance. 
It's  all  the  more  remarkable  in  the  face  of  the  ob 
stacles  with  which  you  had  to  contend.  But  we  are 
fully  informed  as  to  your  actual  financial  strength, 
and  I  think  the  time  has  come  when  we  may  draw 
aside  the  veil  and  speak  frankly.  Mr.  Berkely 
informs  me  that  he  intends  to  proceed  against  the 
Denver  and  California  Railroad  Company.  To 
do  this,  of  course,  he  must  have  the  proper  authority. 
Are  you  sure  that  he  can  get  it?  " 

Larry  smiled.     "I  think  so." 

"To  do  so  he  requires,  does  he  not,  a  majority  vote 
350 


THE  CRISIS 


of  the  Denver  and  Saguache  Railroad  Company  as 
well  as  that  of  the  Short  Line  —  those  two  companies 
and  the  Development  Company,  as  I  understand  it, 
being  in  a  way  dependent  one  upon  the  other?" 

"That  is  correct." 

The  General  settled  back  in  his  chair,  swinging 
his  gold  eyeglasses  daintily. 

"How  is  he  going  to  get  that  authority?"  he 
asked. 

His  smile  infuriated  Wray,  who  replied  quickly. 

"By  virtue  of  my  control  of  all  companies,"  he 
said  crisply. 

"Your  control?"  said  Bent;  "you  have  no  control. 
I  know  your  resources  to  a  dollar,  Mr.  Wray.  To 
day  at  twelve  o'clock  your  Denver  and  Saguache 
Railroad  Company  stock  will  be  in  my  possession." 

Wray  exchanged  a  glance  with  Berkely  and 
laughed  dryly. 

"Oh,  you're  really  coming  in  with  us  at  last,  are 
you,  General?"  he  said.  "That's  fine!"  And  then 
with  a  chuckle,  "Your  name  on  the  directorate  of 
the  Denver  and  Saguache  ought  to  have  some  weight 
with  the  new  officers  of  the  Denver  and  California." 

The  frown  on  Bent's  brows  deepened.  The  point 
of  this  joke  did  not  dawn  on  him. 

"That  stock  has  always  been  for  sale,"  Wray  went 
on.  "Everything  I  have  is  for  sale  when  the  man 
comes  along  who  can  afford  to  buy  it.  It's  funny, 
though,  General  Bent,  that  you  haven't  said  any 
thing  to  me  about  it." 

A  slight  twitching  of  Bent's  lips  and  the  nervous 
351 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


movement  of  his  fingers  among  the  papers  on  the 
table.  Was  this  really  a  joke  or  only  the  last 
manifestation  of  Wray's  colossal  impudence?  He 
chose  to  think  it  the  latter. 

"It  hasn't  been  necessary  to  say  anything  to 
you  about  it,  sir,"  he  said  sternly.  "To-day  at 
noon  two  million  and  a  half  of  that  stock  is  thrown 
on  the  market  at  a  bargain  —  at  a  very  great 
bargain.  But  I'm  the  only  man  in  the  United  States 
who  would  dare  to  touch  it.  I'm  the  only  man  in 
the  world,  except  yourself,  to  whom  it's  worth  a 
dollar.  I  know  your  resources  down  to  the  last 
dime.  You  haven't  the  money  to  take  it  up.  I 
have.  At  noon  that  stock  will  be  mine,  so  will  you 
be  mine  —  your  two  railroads  and  your  smelter, 
at  the  price  I  choose  to  pay  for  them." 

Jeff  sat  quietly,  one  of  his  hands  toying  with  the 
top  of  an  inkstand,  which  he  was  regarding  with 
friendly  interest. 

"Are  you  sure,  General?"  he  asked  calmly. 

General  Bent  clasped  his  twitching  fingers  to  keep 
them  still.  "Why,  sir  —  what  do  you  mean?" 

"That  you're  mistaken,  that's  all.  That  stock 
is  for  sale,  but  you'll  still  have  to  come  to  me  to 
buy  it." 

"How " 

"Because  I  paid  off  those  notes  this  morning. 
That  stock  is  in  my  safe-deposit  vault,  where  it's 
going  to  stay — unless"  —  and  he  smiled  sarcastically 
—  "unless  you  still  want  it." 

General  Bent's  face  paled  and  grew  red,  then 
352 


THE  CRISIS 


purple.  He  struggled  to  his  feet  with  difficulty. 
His  plans  didn't  often  miscarry,  and  the  fact  that  one 
of  the  links  of  the  chain  he  had  tested  so  carefully 
had  failed  to  hold  completely  mystified  him.  How 
—  where  had  Jeff  Wray  succeeded  in  raising  eight 
hundred  thousand  dollars  when  the  limit  of  his 
borrowing  capacity  had  long  ago  been  reached? 
For  months  the  wonderful  secret  organization  of 
the  Amalgamated  had  been  at  work  prying  into  the 
affairs  of  Wray's  companies  and  had  figured  his 
possible  resources  to  the  thinnest  part  of  a  hair. 
He  had  not  sold  the  "Lone  Tree"  or  even  the  small 
est  interest  in  it,  and  yet  there  he  was  apparently 
entrenched  as  firmly  as  ever.  General  Bent  gasped 
in  amazement.  Only  the  interposition  of  Providence 
could  have  made  such  a  thing  possible.  Cortland 
Bent  had  gone  into  the  adjoining  room  suddenly, 
and  Wray  knew  he  was  verifying  this  information 
over  the  telephone.  But  General  Bent  did  not  wait 
for  him  to  return.  To  his  mind  this  news  needed 
no  verification.  It  was  time  for  him  to  play  his 
last  card  —  and  his  best. 

"You  d  —  d  young  scoundrel,"  he  said  in  a 
hoarse  whisper,  his  voice  trembling  with  fury,  while 
Wray  and  Berkely  rose  angrily  and  faced  him.  "I 
won't  mince  matters  with  you  any  longer.  You 
thought  when  you  stole  that  mine  three  years  ago 
that  you  had  covered  all  your  tracks  and  made 
yourself  safe  from  civil  suits.  Mr.  Berkely  planned 
well.  We  fought  you  in  the  courts  and  lost.  I 
suppose  you  thought  we  had  given  up.  We  did 

353 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


let  up,  but  it  was  only  to  get  a  firmer  hold.  We've 
got  it  now,  and  we're  going  to  use  it.  You  stole 
that  mine  —  trespassed  on  our  property  at  night 
and  tried  to  murder  one  of  our  employes.  You 
assaulted  him  and  would  have  killed  him  if  you 
hadn't  been  interrupted " 

"That's  a  lie!"  said  Jeff  calmly. 

"You'll  have  a  chance  to  prove  that.  You  lured 
Max  Reimer  into  a  gambling  den  and  put  him  out 
of  business  so  that  he  couldn't  prevent  my  son  from 
signing  that  lease." 

"That's  another  lie!  He  was  drunk  and  violent 
and  drew  a  gun  on  me.  My  partner  struck  him 
down.  His  head  hit  the  edge  of  a  table." 

"Nonsense,  sir.  We  have  a  witness  who  verifies 
Reimer  in  every  particular,  who  swears  he  saw  from 
the  doorway " 

"Who  is  your  witness?" 

"  Fritz  Weyl — I  see  you  remember  him.     He " 

Wray  laughed  uneasily.  "Yes,  I  remember 
Fritz?" 

Bent  came  one  step  nearer,  waving  a  trembling 
hand  at  Cortland,  who  had  returned  and  was  try 
ing  to  restrain  him.  But  the  General  shook  him 
off. 

"We  dropped  those  civil  suits  because  we  thought 
it  was  wise  to  do  so,  and  because  we  knew  that  in 
time  we  would  be  in  a  position  to  win  in  other  ways. 
There  are  other  processes  of  law  besides  the  civil 
ones,  and  those  are  the  ones  we  choose  to  take. 
Before  you  can  leave  Denver  you'll  be  arrested  on 

354 


THE  CRISIS 


charges  of  abduction  and  conspiracy.      I  suppose 
you  know  what  that  means?" 

Jeff  grew  a  shade  paler,  his  eyes  blazing  their 
resentment  at  the  old  man  who  stood  tottering 
before  him. 

"You'd  do  that  —  you?"  cried  Jeff,  hoarsely, 
struggling  hard  to  keep  himself  under  control. 
"You'd  hire  men  to  send  me  to  the  penitentiary  be 
cause  I've  balked  your  plans  —  because  I've  beaten 
you  in  a  fair  fight  against  odds  —  you?  —  you?" 
Wray  clenched  his  fist  and  took  a  step  forward,  but 
Larry  Berkely  seized  him  by  the  arm,  and  Cortland 
Bent  stepped  between. 

General  Bent  pushed  his  son  aside. 

"Go,    Cort  — call   McCabe.     We'll   see " 

At  this  moment  there  was  an  interruption. 

"Wait  a  moment,  Cort,  please,"  said  a  voice. 

The  door  into  Mr.  Janney's  parlor  had  opened 
suddenly,  and  Mrs.  Cheyne  had  entered  the  room. 
And  while  the  General  eyed  her  angrily,  too  amazed 
to  speak,  she  strode  quickly  forward  into  the  group 
and  continued  quietly, 

"There  has  been  a  mistake  —  a  terrible  mistake. 
If  you'll  let  me  explain " 

General  Bent  was  the  first  to  recover  his  senses. 
"Rita!  Leave  the  room  at  once!"  he  commanded. 

"No,"  she  said  firmly,  "not  until  you  hear  what 
I  have  to  say " 

"I  can't  listen  now  —  another  time,"  he  fumed. 

"No,  now.  I'm  going  to  save  you  from  doing 
something  that  you'll  regret  the  rest  of  your  life." 

355 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


While  the  General  questioned,  Jeff  had  turned  and 
seized  her  by  the  arm,  his  eyes  pleading. 

"Rita!  "he  muttered,  "You  know?     .... 
For  God's  sake,  don't!     .     .     .     Not  now!" 

"Yes,"  she  said  firmly.  "No  one  else  will. 
I  must." 

Cornelius  Bent  and  Cortland  had  watched  Wray 
in  amazement.  His  face  had  suddenly  grown  white 
and  drawn. 

"  You  have  no  right  to  tell  him,  Rita,"  he  persisted. 
"It's  my  secret!  —  not  yours!  You  can't!  I 
tell  you." 

But  she  eluded  him  and  faced  the  General. 

"You  must  listen  to  me,  Cousin  Cornelius." 

Curtis  Janney,  who  had  been  watching  Wray 
closely,  now  interposed. 

"Let  her  speak,  General.  It  seems  to  be  some 
thing  of  more  than  usual  importance." 

"Very  well,"  he  growled,  "but  be  brief." 

"I  can't  tell  it  here,"  she  insisted.  "I  must 
speak  to  you  alone." 

"Alone?     Why?" 

"It's  a  private  -matter.  Will  you  come  into  the 
next  room,  there's  no  one  there " 

She  turned  and  was  moving  toward  the  door  when 
Jeff's  large  figure  blocked  the  way. 

"You  don't  know  what  you're  doing,  Rita," 
he  whispered.  "You  can't.  I  forbid  it."  But 
Berkely,  who  had  been  watching  the  General,  took 
Jeff  by  the  arm  and  held  him  by  main  force. 

"Stand  aside,  sir,"  said  General  Bent,  roughly 
356 


THE  CRISIS 


brushing  by.  "If  there's  something  you  want  con 
cealed,  it's  something  I  want  to  hear."  And  he 
followed,  banging  the  door  behind  him. 

Jeff  made  a  movement  as  though  he  would  follow 
—  then  turned  toward  Cortland  Bent  and  Janney, 
who  had  watched  this  extraordinary  change  in  the 
demeanor  of  their  enemy  with  wonder  and  some 
curiosity.  Jeff  stared  at  them  wildly  and  took  up 
his  hat,  saying  in  a  strange  voice, 

"Come,  Larry,  I  must  get  away  from  here  —  at 
once,"  and,  opening  the  door,  he  fled  madly  down 
the  corridor. 

Berkely  paused  a  moment.  "We  have  no  inten 
tion  of  dodging  any  issues,"  he  said  quietly.  "If 
any  of  you  gentlemen  want  to  see  Mr.  Wray  or  me, 
you  can  find  us  both  at  the  Wetherall  Ranch  to 


morrow." 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

THE    CALL    OF    THE    HEART 

LARRY  caught  up  with  Jeff  outside  the 
elevator  shaft,  where  he  found  him  strid 
ing  up  and  down  like  a  caged  beast.  Jeff 
entered  the  car  in  a  daze  and  followed  Larry  blindly 
across  the  huge  lobby  downstairs  and  out  of  doors 
to  a  motor  which  was  waiting  for  them  at  the  curb. 
Larry  was  still  bewildered  at  the  surprising  con 
clusion  of  their  visit  and  eyed  his  companion  sharply, 
but  Jeff  sat  with  folded  arms,  looking  neither  to  the 
right  nor  left  as  they  whirled  through  the  city 
streets  and  out  into  the  highroad.  The  hunted 
look  in  Jeff's  eyes  warned  Larry  not  to  speak,  so  he 
sat  beside  his  partner  patiently  and  waited. 

Suddenly,  without  moving,  Jeff's  great  hand 
shot  out  and  clinched  Larry's  knee  like  a  vise. 

"He  —  he's  my  father,  Larry,"  said  Jeff  hoarsely, 
"my  father  —  do  you  understand?  I  didn't  want 
him  to  know." 

Larry  put  his  hand  over  Jeff's  and  gripped  it 
hard.  He  knew  what  other  people  in  Mesa  City 
knew  of  Jeff's  birth,  but  no  words  occurred  to  him. 
The  information  had  taken  his  breath  away. 

"I  didn't  want  him  to  know,"  Jeff  went  on.  "I 
wanted  to  wait  —  to  tell  him  myself  when  things 

358 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  HEART 

had  broken  right  for  us.  I  wanted  to  win  —  to 
show  him  I  was  his  master  —  not  to  come  crawling 
and  licking  his  boots  for  mercy.  I'll  not  do  it  now, 
either,  by  G  —  d.  He  can  break  me  to  bits,  but 
he'll  never  own  me  —  I  never  was  his  —  I  never 
will  be " 

"He  hasn't  broken  us  yet,  Jeff.  He  can't  keep 
us  out  of  Pueblo.  We're  going  to  win,  I  tell  you." 

"We've  got  to  win,  Larry,"  groaned  Jeff.  "  We've 
got  to  win.  That  conspiracy  charge " 

"Mere  piffle,"  said  Larry.  "Don't  worry. 
They've  bought  Fritz  Weyl.  He's  not  a  compe 
tent  witness.  I  can  prove  it." 

Jeff  sank  back  again,  his  gaze  on  the  mountains. 
"He'd  send  me  to  Canon  City  —  to  the  peniten 
tiary  —  if  he  could  —  and  he's  —  my  father." 

Larry  bit  his  lip,  but  didn't  reply,  for  his  mind 
was  working  rapidly.  He  had  a  perspective  on  the 
situation  which  had  been  denied  to  Jeff,  and  the 
vista  did  not  seem  unpleasant.  He  was  prepared 
to  fight  for  Jeff's  interests  and  his  own  to  the  bitter 
end,  but  he  was  too  keen  a  lawyer  and  too  sound  a 
philosopher  not  to  know  the  value  of  compromise, 
and,  in  spite  of  himself,  it  was  his  legal  mind  which 
grapsed  the  essentials  of  Jeff's  relation  to  their 
common  enemy.  What  would  be  the  effect  of  this 
astonishing  revelation  on  the  mind  of  General  Bent? 
He  did  not  dare  speak  of  this  to  Jeff,  who  in  his 
present  mood  could  only  misinterpret  him;  but  he 
was  still  thinking  of  it  when  the  car  drew  up 
at  the  steps  at  Wetherall's  big  bungalow  palace. 

359 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


Gretchen  and  their  hostess  met  the  arrivals  at  the 
door,  and  Jeff  followed  them  in  slowly.  He  wanted 
to  be  alone  again  to  think  —  and  here  was  sanctuary. 
Gretchen  paused  at  the  entrance  to  the  morning 
room,  and,  taking  Jeff  by  the  arm,  opened  the  door, 
pushed  him  in  quickly,  and  closed  it  behind  him. 
And  while  Jeff  was  wondering  what  it  all  meant  he 
heard  a  step  beside  him,  felt  the  timid  touch  of 
a  hand  on  his  sleeve,  and  found  his  eyes  looking 
down  into  Camilla's. 

"Jeff,"  she  was  whispering,  "they  told  me  you 
needed  me,  and  so  I  came  to  you.  Do  you  want 
me?" 

He  looked  at  her  mistily,  for  the  misfortunes  which 
hung  about  him  had  dulled  his  perceptions.  It 
seemed  strange  that  she  should  be  there,  but  he 
experienced  no  surprise  at  seeing  her. 

"Yes,  I  want  you,"  he  said  absently.  "Of  course 
I  want  you."  He  fingered  the  hand  on  his  sleeve 
and  patted  it  gently,  as  he  would  have  done  a  child's, 
but  she  saw  with  pain  that  the  tragedy  of  his  birth 
now  overshadowed  all  other  issues.  If  he  was  think 
ing  of  her  at  all,  it  was  of  the  other  Camilla  —  the 
Camilla  he  had  known  longest  —  the  gingerbread 
woman  that  she  had  been.  It  hurt  her,  but  she  knew 
that  it  was  her  own  fault  that  he  could  not  think 
otherwise.  She  took  his  hand  in  her  own  warm 
fingers,  and  held  it  closely  against  her  breast. 

"Jeff,  dear,  look  at  me.  I'm  not  the  woman  that 
I  used  to  be.  I'm  the  real  Camilla,  now  —  the 
Camilla  you  always  hoped  I'd  be.  I'm  changed. 

360 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  HEART 

Something  has  happened  to  me.  I  want  you  to 
understand  —  I'm  not  a  graven  image  now,  Jeff, 
I'm  just  — •  your  wife." 

He  looked  at  her,  bewildered,  but  in  her  eyes  he 
saw  that  what  she  said  was  true.  They  were  dif 
ferent  eyes  from  the  ones  he  had  known  —  softened, 
darker  —  and  looked  up  into  his  own  pleadingly, 
wet  with  compassion,  the  tender,  compelling  eyes  of  a 
woman  whose  soul  is  awakened.  She  released  his 
hand  and  threw  her  arms  around  his  neck,  lifting 
her  face  to  his.  "Don't  you  understand,  Jeff?  I 
want  you.  I  want  you.  I've  never  wanted  any 
body  else." 

His  arms  tightened  about  her,  and  their  lips  met. 
She  was  tangible  now  —  no  mere  image  to  be  wor 
shipped  from  afar,  but  a  warm  idol  of  flesh  and 
blood,  to  be  taken  into  one's  heart  and  enshrined 
there. 

"Camilla,  girl.     Is  it  true? " 

"Yes,"  she  whispered,  "it  has  always  been  true  — 
only  I  didn't  know  it.  I  love  you,  Jeff.  I  love 
you  —  oh,  how  I  love  you !  Better  than  myself  — 
better  than  all  the  world.  Do  you  realize  it 
now?" 

He  took  her  head  between  his  hands  and  held 
it  away  so  that  he  might  look  deep  into  her  eyes 
and  be  sure.  Their  lashes  dropped  once  or  twice 
and  hid  them,  but  that  made  them  only  the  more 
lovely  when  they  opened  again.  For  in  them  he 
read  the  whole  measure  of  his  happiness  and 
hers. 

24  361 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


"Yes,  it's  true.  I  know  it  now.  You've  never 
looked  at  me  like  that  —  never  before."  He  bent  her 
head  forward  and  would  have  kissed  her  —  as  he 
sometimes  used  to  do  —  on  the  forehead  —  but  she 
would  not  let  him. 

"No,  not  that  kiss  —  the  cold  kiss  of  homage, 
Jeff.  I  don't  want  to  be  venerated.  You're  not 
to  kiss  me  like  that  again  —  ever.  My  lips  — 
they're  yours,  Jeff  —  my  lips  .  .  .  No  one 
else  —  no,  never  .  .  .  they're  yours." 

So  he  took  them,  and  in  their  sweetness  for  a 
while  found  forgetfulness  of  his  bitterness.  At  last 
she  led  him  to  a  big  chair  by  the  window,  made  him 
sit,  and  sank  on  the  floor  at  his  feet. 

"You're  not  going  back  to  Kansas?"  he  asked 
anxiously. 

She  smiled.     "Not  unless  you  want  me  to." 

He  drew  her  into  his  arms  again.  "I'll  never 
want  you  to.  I  want  you  here  —  close  —  close  — 
my  girl." 

"You  must  never  leave  me  again,  Jeff  —  I've 
suffered  so." 

"I  couldn't  stand   seeing  you.     I  thought  you 

loved "     She  put  her  fingers  over  his  lips  and 

would  not  let  him  finish. 

"No  —  not  now don't  speak  of  that,  it's  all 

a  nightmare.  But  you  must  never  leave  me  again. 
I  want  to  be  with  you  always.  I  want  to  take 
my  half  of  your  troubles." 

His  head  bowed,  the  grasp  of  his  hands  relaxed^ 
and  his  eyes  stared  into  vacancy. 

362 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  HEART 

"My  troubles  —  yes,  there  are  a  lot  of  them. 
Perhaps  you  won't  care  for  me  so  much  when  I'm 
down  and  out,  Camilla.  I  suppose  I  ought  to  tell 
you.  He  —  my  father  is  going  to  have  me  in 
dicted  for  conspiracy  —  about  the  mines.  He's 
going  to  try  to  jail  me  —  if  he  can." 

She  started  up,  terror-stricken. 

"Oh,  he  couldn't  —  even  he  —  couldn't  do  a 
thing  like  that." 

"Oh,  yes,  he  could,"  grimly.  "He  has  bribed 
Reimer  and  Fritz  Weyl.  They  swear  I  tried  to 
murder  Max." 

"But  you  didn't,  Jeff —  tell  me  you  didn't,"  she 
said  tremulously.  "You  know  you  never  told  me 
what  happened,  and  I've  feared  —  you  were  des 
perate  in  those  days  —  and  lawless." 

"I'm  desperate  and  lawless  yet,"  he  muttered. 
"But  I'd  never  try  to  kill  a  man  just  for  money. 
We  offered  Max  Reimer  a  share  in  the  mine  —  a 
good  share  —  but  he  wanted  to  hog  it  all.  I  told 
him  he  was  a  drunken  fool,  and  he  tried  to  shoot  me. 
Mulrennan  struck  him,  and  knocked  him  out. 
I  wouldn't  be  here  now  if  he  hadn't.  I  don't  know 
why  I  never  told  you.  I  suppose  I  thought  you 
wouldn't  understand.  I  left  Mulrennan  trying 
to  bring  him  around  —  and  went  down  and  bought 
that  lease.  That's  all." 

"Thank  God,"  she  crooned.  "I've  been  so 
afraid.  There  have  been  so  many  stories." 

"Lies  —  all  lies  —  circulated  by  him.  Now  he's 
got  Reimer  to  swear  to  them." 

363 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


She  threw  her  arms  around  his  neck  and  searched 
his  face  anxiously. 

"Jeff  —  he  can't  make  people  believe " 

"He  wants  to  ruin  me  —  and  he'll  do  it  if  he  can. 
There's  no  telling  what  money  will  do.  He  squeezed 
Conrad  Seemuller  and  made  him  a  bankrupt. 
Seemuller  drank  himself  to  death.  Jimmy  Ott 
blew  out  his  brains.  Oh,  don't  be  afraid  —  I'm 
not  going  to  do  either  —  I'm  not  going  to  be  crushed 
like  a  worm.  If  he  ruins  me,  he'll  pay  dear  for  the 
privilege.  I'll  drag  him  down  with  me,  and  he'll 
drop  farther  than  I  will.  I  wanted  to  keep  things 
quiet  —  but  I  won't  any  longer.  I'll  tell  the  world 
my  story  —  his  story,  and  let  the  world  judge 
between  us." 

He  tramped  up  and  down  the  floor  like  a  madman 
until  Camilla  interposed  and  led  him  to  a  divan. 
He  followed  her  like  a  child  and  let  her  sit  beside 
him  while  she  questioned  him  as  to  what  had  hap 
pened.  Jeff  had  looked  for  sanctuary,  and  he  had 
found  it  at  last.  The  other  people  in  the  house  did 
not  disturb  them,  and  they  sat  for  a  long  time  alone, 
exchanging  the  confidences  which  had  been  so  long 
delayed;  but  they  were  none  the  less  sweet  on  that 
account.  Late  in  the  afternoon  Camilla  questioned 
Jeff  again  about  the  happenings  of  the  morning. 
Rita  Cheyne's  part  in  the  situation  did  not  surprise 
her.  She  knew  that  Rita  had  heard  everything 
and  had  decided  to  continue  to  play  the  game  with 
Fate  in  Jeff's  behalf.  But  she  did  not  tell  Jeff  so. 
When  he  questioned  her  she  told  him  what  had 

364 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  HEART 

happened    at    the    Kinney    House   after   he   had 
left. 

"Oh,  Jeff,  I  don't  know  how  I  could  have  mis 
judged  you  so.  Rita  opened  my  eyes  —  why  she 
chose  to  do  it,  I  don't  know.  She's  a  strange 
woman  —  I  can't  quite  make  her  out  even  now. 
She's  half  angel,  half  vixen,  but  I'll  never  forget 
her  —  never!"  Camilla  put  her  hand  over  Jeff's 
suddenly.  "That  money  —  Jeff  —  you  must  pay 
her  back  that  money  —  if  you  have  to  sell  the  mine." 

"I  can't  sell  the  mine  —  not  now.  It  would 
clean  me  out." 

"I  don't  care,"  she  pleaded.  "I  don't  want 
money.  It  has  brought  nothing  but  unhappiness 
to  either  of  us.  I  want  to  begin  all  over  again. 
I've  learned  my  lesson.  I  look  back  to  the  old  days 
and  wonder  what  I  could  have  been  dreaming  of. 
I've  seen  all  I  want  of  the  world.  Happiness  belongs 
in  the  heart  —  no  amount  of  money  can  buy  it  a 
place  there.  I  want  to  be  poor  again  —  with  you. 
Give  him  —  give  General  Bent  what  he  wants,  Jeff 
—  that  will  satisfy  him,  won't  it?  Please,  Jeff,  for 
my  sake!  Sell  out  the  smelter  and  the  mine  ' 

"Never!"  Jeff's  jaw  set,  and  he  rose,  putting 
her  aside  almost  roughly. 

"I'll  never  give  them  up  while  I've  an  ounce  of 
blood  to  fight!" 

His  tongue  faltered  and  was  silent.  Camilla 
followed  his  startled  gaze  through  the  open  window 
at  an  automobile,  from  the  tonneau  of  which  a  man 
hurriedly  descended. 

365 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


"What  can  it  mean?"  Jeff  was  asking  as  though 
to  himself.  "Cort  Bent!  What  does  he  want?" 

"It's  very  curious,"  Camilla  said  slowly.  "To 
see  you " 

When  Bent  came  into  the  room  a  moment  later 
they  were  both  aware  of  the  imminence  of  important 
revelations.  Camilla  had  not  seen  him  for  two 
months,  and  she  was  conscious  of  a  slight  sense  of 
shock  at  his  appearance.  Jeff,  too,  noted  that  he 
was  very  pale  and  that  in  his  eyes  there  hung  a 
shadow  of  the  misfortune  that  had  marked  them 
all. 

At  the  door  Cortland  turned  to  Mrs.  Berkely 
who  had  met  him  in  the  hall. 

"If  you  don't  mind,  Gretchen,  I'd  like  to  speak 
to  him  alone."  And,  when  Camilla  would  have  gone, 
"No,  Camilla,  it  concerns  you,  too."  While  they 
wondered  what  was  coming  he  walked  past  Camilla 
and  put  a  hand  on  Jeff's  shoulder,  the  lines  in  his 
face  softening  gently. 

"They've  told  me,  Jeff.  I  know.  I've  come 
to  offer  you  my  hand."  And,  as  Jeff  still  stared 
at  him  uncertainly,  "You  won't  refuse  it,  will  you!" 

There  was  a  nobility  in  the  simple  gesture,  a 
depth  of  meaning  in  the  quiet  tones  of  his  voice. 
Camilla  alone  knew  what  those  few  words  were 
costing  him,  and  she  watched  Jeff,  who  was  stand 
ing  as  though  he  had  been  turned  to  stone,  his 
head  bent  forward  upon  his  breast,  his  deep-set 
eyes  peering  under  his  brows  as  General  Bent's  had 
often  done.  His  eyes  found  Cortland's  at  last, 

366 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  HEART 

searching  them  keenly,  but  he  found  in  them  only 
a  small  bright  flame  of  fellowship  among  the  embers 
of  regret.  Jeff's  fingers  twitched  a  little,  then  his 
hand  came  forward  impulsively,  and  the  two  men 
clasped  hands. 

"I'm  sorry,  Jeff  —  I  am — from  the  bottom  of 
my  heart.  I  want  you  to  understand." 

"I  do,"  said  Jeff,  with  difficulty.  "I  didn't 
want  you  to  know " 

"I'm  glad.     I  think  it's  better  so." 

He  paused  a  moment  before  going  on.  "I  want 
—  I  want  you  and  Camilla  to  go  right  back  with  me. 
Can  you?  That's  what  I  came  to  ask.  Father  is  ill." 

"111?  "stammered  Jeff. 

"A  stroke  of  apoplexy  —  the  sudden  shock  of 
discovering  all  this."  Jeff  and  Camilla  started 
forward  with  one  impulse  of  horror.  "Rita and  Aunt 
Caroline  were  with  him,  and  Rita  had  told  him  the 
truth  —  the  doctors  are  there  —  he  has  recovered 
consciousness,  but  his  left  side  is  paralyzed,  com 
pletely  paralyzed." 

Jeff  sank  heavily  in  a  chair  and  buried  his  face 
in  his  hands. 

"What  do  the  doctors  say?"  asked  Camilla 
anxiously. 

"That  he's  very  sick  —  that's  all.  Nobody  can 
tell.  I've  wired  Chicago  for  a  specialist.  We  can 
only  wait  and  hope.  It's  pretty  desperate  —  I 
know  that.  He's  an  old  man  —  and  he's  grown 
older  lately." 

Cort  stopped  speaking  and  walked  to  the  window, 
367 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


while  Camilla  watched  him  pityingly.  He  wasn't 
like  the  old  Cort  she  used  to  know,  and  yet  there 
was  something  inexpressively  appealing  in  his  gentle 
ness  which  reminded  her  of  the  moods  in  him  she 
had  liked  the  best.  She  glanced  at  Jeff.  His 
head  was  still  buried  in  his  hands,  and  he  had  not 
moved.  But  Camilla  knew  that  this  startling  rev 
elation  was  causing  a  rearrangement  of  all  Jeff's 
ideas.  In  that  moment  she  prayed  that  Jeff's 
bitterness  might  be  sweetened  —  that  the  tragedy 
which  had  suddenly  stalked  among  them  might 
soften  his  heart  to  pity  for  the  old  man  who  was  his 
father  and  his  enemy. 

Cortland  turned  and  spoke  with  an  effort. 

"Will  you  go  back  with  me,  Jeff?  When  he  first 
recovered  consciousness  he  spoke  your  name.  He  has 
been  asking  for  you  ever  since.  He  wants " 

Jeff's  eyes  peered  above  his  trembling  fingers. 

"He  asked  —  for  me?"  he  said  hoarsely. 

"Yes  —  he  wants  to  see  you." 

Jeff's  head  sank  into  his  hands  again. 

"He  wants  —  to  see  me ?  I  can't  —  seem  to 
realize " 

"It's  true  —  he  asked  me  to  bring  you." 

There  was  a  long  period  of  silence,  during  which 
Jeff's  long,  bony  fingers  clasped  and  unclasped  back 
of  his  head  as  he  struggled  with  himself.  "I  can't," 
he  groaned  at  last.  "I  can't.  It  has  been  too 
long  —  too  much."  He  straightened  in  disorder 
and  went  on  wildly:  "Why,  he  has  dogged  my  steps 
for  months  —  used  all  his  genius  and  cunning  to 

368 


TEE  CALL  OF  THE  HEART 


do  away  with  me  —  tried  to  rid  himself  of  me  as  he 
did  years  ago  —  and  even  hired  men  to  swear  my 
liberty  away."  His  head  dropped  into  his  hands 
again  and  he  leaned  forward,  his  elbows  on  his 
knees.  "No,  I  can't,  Cort.  I  can't.  It's  too 
much  to  ask  —  too  much." 

Cortland  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  floor,  his  arms 
folded,  head  bent,  waiting  for  the  storm  to  pass, 
his  own  pain  engulfed  in  the  greater  pain  of  the 
man  before  him.  He  did  not  try  to  answer  Jeff, 
for  there  was  no  answer  to  be  made.  It  was  not 
a  moment  for  words,  and  he  knew  he  had  no  right 
even  to  petition.  It  was  a  matter  for  Jeff's  heart 
alone  —  a  heart  so  long  embittered  that  even  if 
it  refused  this  charity,  Cortland  could  not  find  it 
in  his  own  heart  to  condemn. 

With  a  glance  at  Cortland,  Camilla  went  over  to 
Jeff  and  laid  her  fingers  lightly  on  his  shoulder. 

"Jeff,"  she  said  with  gentle  firmness,  "you  must 
go  —  to  your  father."  But,  as  he  did  not  move, 
she  went  on.  "You  forget  —  he  did  not  know. 
Perhaps  if  he  had  known  he  would  have  tried  to 
make  atonement  before.  Do  you  realize  what  it 
means  for  a  man  like  General  Bent  to  make  such 
a  request  at  such  a  time?  You  can't  refuse,  Jeff. 
You  can't." 

Jeff  moved  his  head  and  stared  for  a  long  time 
at  the  fireplace,  his  fingers  clenched  on  the  chair 
arms,  turning  at  last  to  Cortland. 

"Do  you  —  do  you  think  he'll  die?"  he  asked. 
"What  do  they  say?" 

369 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


"His  heart  is  bad,"  said  Cort  gravely.  "I  don't 
know  —  a  man  of  father's  years  seldom  recovers 
from  a  thing  like  that " 

But  it  was  Camilla  who  interposed.  She  stepped 
between  the  two  men  and  took  Jeff  by  the  arm. 
"Cort  can't  go  back  without  you,  Jeff,"  she  said  pas 
sionately.  "Don't  you  see  that?  He  can't.  You've 
got  to  go.  If  your  father  died  to-night  you'd  never 
forgive  yourself.  He  may  have  done  you  a  wrong, 
but  God  knows  he's  trying  to  right  it  now.  You've 
got  to  let  him."  Cortland  watched  them  a  moment, 
then  suddenly  straightened  and  glanced  at  his  watch. 

"I  can't  stay  here  any  longer,"  he  said.  "I've 
got  to  go  back  to  him.  There  is  much  to  be  done, 
and  I'm  the  only  one  to  do  it.  This  is  my  last 
plea  —  not  that  of  a  dying  man's  son  for  his  father, 
but  of  a  brother  to  a  brother  for  the  father  of  both. 
Come  back  with  me  —  Jeff.  Not  for  his  sake  — 
but  for  your  own.  It  is  your  own  blood  that  is 
calling  you  —  pitifully  —  you  can't  refuse." 

Jeff  struggled  heavily  to  his  feet  and  passed  his 
hands  across  his  eyes,  and  then,  with  a  sudden  sharp 
intake  of  his  breath,  he  turned  to  Cortland,  his 
lips  trembling. 

"I'll  go,"  he  said  hoarsely.  "If  he  wants  me, 
I'll  go,  Cort.  Something  is  drawing  me  —  some 
thing  inside  of  me  that  awoke  when  you  told  me 
what  had  happened.  I've  been  fighting  against 
it,  the  habit  of  thirty  years  was  fighting  it,  but 
I've  got  to  go.  I'd  be  cursed  if  I  didn't.  You're 
sure  he  really  wants  me,  Cort?" 

370 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

GENERAL   BENT 

THE  room  at  the  hotel  into  which  Cortland 
showed  them  was  a  part  of  General  Bent's 
own  suite.  Curtis  Janney  and  a  doctor 
consulted  near  the  window,  and  a  nurse  from  the 
hospital,  in  her  white  linen  uniform  and  cap,  hovered 
near.  Jeff's  questioning  gaze  sought  the  crack 
of  the  door  of  the  darkened  room  adjoining. 

"I  think  you  may  go  in,  Mr.  Bent,"  said  the 
doctor  to  Cortland.  "He's  conscious  at  longer  in 
tervals  now.  It  looks  very  much  more  hopeful, 
sir.  He  still  asks  for  Mr.  Wray. " 

Cortland  followed  the  doctor  into  the  sick  room, 
while  Janney  joined  Jeff  and  Camilla  and  waited. 

"Will  he  —  get  over  it,  Mr.  Janney?"  Camilla 
asked  softly. 

"Oh,  I  think  so  now  —  we  didn't  at  first.  Only 
one  side  is  affected.  He  can  even  move  the 
hand  a  little.  Of  course,  it  may  be  a  long  time." 

Jeff  listened  in  a  daze.  The  baby  stare  had  come 
into  his  eyes  again,  and  it  moved  from  one  object 
in  the  room  to  another  —  always  returning  to  the 
door  of  the  darkened  room  into  which  Cortland  had 
vanished.  There  was  an  odor  of  medicine,  the 
sound  of  crackling  ice,  and  now  the  murmur  of 

371 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


voices.  A  moment  later  one  of  the  nurses  appeared 
in  the  doorway. 

"Mr.  Wray,"  she  said,  "y°u  may  come  in." 

And  Jeff  entered,  passing  Cortland,  who  stood 
with  bowed  head  at  the  door.  In  the  darkness  he 
could  just  make  out  the  white  figure  of  the  old  man 
propped  up  against  the  pillows.  He  breathed  with 
difficulty,  and  Jeff,  unused  to  scenes  of  sickness,  felt 
all  his  heart  go  out  in  pity  for  the  helpless  old  man 
who  was  calling  for  him. 

"Is  he  here?"  the  General  murmured.  "Is  he 
here?" 

Jeff  moved  quietly  around  the  bed  to  the  chair 
which  the  nurse  had  placed  for  him,  "Yes,  sir," 
he  said  huskily.  "It's  Jeff." 

The  General's  right  hand  groped  feebly  along  the 
covers,  and  Jeff  took  it  in  both  of  his  own.  "Cort 
told  me  you  wanted  me,  sir. " 

"I'm  glad  —  very  glad."  He  turned  his  head 
and  tried  to  smile.  "It  was  —  so  —  so  sudden  — 
the  news, "  he  said  with  an  effort,  "to  find  out " 

"I'm  sorry,  sir.     I  didn't  want  you  to  know." 

"I'm  glad  to  know.  It  makes  me  —  happy.  I've 
Deen  trying  for  so  many  years  to  find  you. " 

"You  tried?"  in  astonishment. 

"Yes,  I  didn't  know  anything  about  —  about 
having  a  son  —  until  it  was  too  late.  One  of  my 
associates  —  in  the  West  —  told  me  later.  I  tried 
to  find  out  —  where  they  had  taken  you,  but  the 
nurse  in  the  hospital  —  had  gone  —  and  there  was 
no  record  of  her  —  or  of  —  of  you. "  He  spoke 

372 


GENERAL  BENT 


with  a  great  effort,  striving  against  the  drowsiness 
which  from  time  to  time  attacked  him.  "They 
did  things  —  differently  in  those  days.  She  —  your 
mother  —  never  mentioned  my  name.  We  had  had 
a  quarrel  —  a  serious  quarrel  —  just  after  we  were 
married ' 

"Married?"  Jeff  leaned  forward  over  the  white 
coverlid  toward  the  old  man's  distorted  face.  "You 
were  married?"  he  whispered,  awe-stricken. 

"  Yes,  married,  Jeff  —  married  —  I  —  I  have  the 
papers  —  at  home  —  I'll  show  them  to  you  — 

Jeff  bent  his  head  suddenly  over  the  old  man's 
lean  fingers  and  kissed  them  impulsively. 

"Married! "he  murmured,  "Thank  God!  Thank 
God  for  that." 

The  General's  eyes  followed  him  plaintively, 
while  he  struggled  for  breath.  "Yes,  it's  true.  In 
Topeka  —  Kansas.  That's  what  I  wanted  to  tell 
you.  I  couldn't  go  —  I  couldn't  die  without  let 
ting  you  know  that.  It  didn't  matter  to  her  — she 
could  forget.  I  did  her  a  wrong,  but  not  a  great 
wrong,  as  I  did  you.  I've  thought  about  you  all 
these  years,  Jeff.  It's  my  secret  —  I've  kept  it  a  long 
time " 

He  sank  back  into  his  pillows,  exhausted,  breath 
ing  heavily  again,  and  the  doctor  who  had  stood  in 
the  doorway  came  forward.  "I  think  you  had  better 
rest,  General.  Mr.  Wray  can  come  in  later." 
But  the  General  resolutely  waved  him  aside  with  a 
movement  that  suggested  his  old  authority. 

"No,  not  yet — I'm  better  —  I'll  sleep  again  in  a 
373 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


moment."  And,  as  the  doctor  withdrew,  the  old 
man's  grasp  on  Jeff's  hand  grew  tighter.  "They  took 
you  away  from  the  hospital  —  without  even  giving 
you  a  name." 

"Yes,  sir  —  I  had  no  name  but  the  one  they 
gave  me. "  Jeff  tried  to  make  him  stop  talking,  but 
he  went  on,  striving  desperately: 

"I  had  men  working  —  to  try  and  find  you.  I've 
their  reports  at  home  —  you  shall  see  them.  I 
want  you  to  know  that  I  did  all  I  could.  We  got 
the  name  of  the  nurse." 

"Mrs.  Nixon?" 

"I  think  —  no,"  he  said  confusedly.  "I  can't 
remember  —  she  disappeared " 

"  Yes,  sir.  She  married  again  and  went  to  Texas. 
She  took  me  with  her. " 

Bent's  eyes  searched  Jeff's  piteously.  "That  was 
it, "  he  whispered, "that  was  it.  That's  my  excuse  — 
I  tried,  you  know  I  tried,  don't  you?  It  has  been 
my  burden  for  years  —  more  even  lately  —  than 
when  I  was  younger  —  the  wrong  I  had  done  you. 
Say  that  you  understand  —  won't  you  —  my  — 
my  —  son?" 

The  tears  had  come  into  Jeff's  eyes,  welled  forth 
like  the  gush  of  water  in  a  dry  fountain,  and  fell 
upon  the  old  wrinkled  fingers. 

"I  do,  sir  —  I  do." 

The  General's  hand  left  the  coverlid  and  rested 
for  a  moment  on  Jeff's  shoulder. 

"I  hoped  you  would.  I've  always  hoped  you'd 
forgive  me  when  you  knew. " 

374 


GENERAL  BENT 


Jeff  straightened  and  brushed  his  eyes.  "There's 
nothing  to  forgive.  I  —  I  only  want  you  to  get 
well  —  you  will,  sir.  They  say  you're  better. " 

"Yes,   Jeff,   better  —  better  already —  but    I'm 
very  tired.     I  think  —  I  think  —  I  can  sleep  now  - 
but  don't  go  away  —  don't  go,"  and  he  sank  back 
in  a  state  of  coma. 

General  Bent  recovered.  The  stroke  was  a  slight 
one,  and  he  gained  strength  and  the  use  of  his  fac 
ulties  rapidly.  But  Time  had  served  its  notice  of 
dispossession,  and  they  all  knew  that  the  hour  had 
come  when  the  management  of  Bent's  great  business 
interests  must  pass  to  younger  hands.  Within  a 
few  weeks  he  was  permitted  to  sit  up  for  an  hour 
each  day,  and  with  Cortland's  help  took  up  the 
loose  ends  of  the  most  urgent  business.  But  he 
tired  easily,  and  it  was  evident  to  them  all  that  the 
days  of  his  activity  were  ended. 

In  spite  of  it  all,  a  great  calm  had  fallen  over  the 
General's  spirit.  The  quick  decision,  the  incisive 
judgment,  were  still  his  —  for  one  doesn't  forget  in 
a  moment  the  habits  of  a  lifetime  of  command  —  but 
his  tones  were  softer,  his  manner  more  gentle,  and 
in  his  eyes  there  had  dawned  a  soft  light  of  tolera 
tion  and  benignity  which  became  him  strangely. 

Gladys,  who  had  come  on  from  Lakewood,  was 
with  him  constantly  and  watched  these  changes  in 
her  father  with  timid  wonder.  He  had  never  been 
one  to  confide  in  his  children,  and  it  required  some 
readjustment  of  her  relations  with  him  to  accept  the 
quiet  appeal  of  his  eyes  and  the  sympathy  and  ap- 

375 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


preciation  which  she  found  in  his  newly  begotten 
tenderness.  In  Cortland,  too,  she  saw  a  great  change, 
and  it  surprised  her  to  discover  the  resolute,  unob 
trusive  way  in  which  he  met  his  responsibilities, 
both  functional  and  moral.  Jeff  and  Camilla,  aware 
of  their  anomalous  position,  had  decided  to  leave 
the  hotel  and  go  back  to  Mesa  City  as  soon  as 
General  Bent  grew  better.  It  was  Cortland  who 
prevailed  on  them  to  stay. 

"We're  all  one  family  now,  Jeff,"  he  said  firmly, 
"one  and  indivisible.  Gladys  and  I  are  of  a  mind 
on  that,  and  father  wishes  it  so.  Your  claim  on 
him  comes  before  ours  —  we  don't  forget  that  — 
we  don't  want  to  forget  it." 

Jeff,  unable  to  reply,  only  grasped  him  by  the 
hand.  And  then,  with  Larry's  help,  the  two  of 
them  plunged  into  the  business  of  straightening  out 
the  tangle  in  the  General's  affairs  and  Jeff's.  It  was 
a  matter  of  moment  with  Cortland  to  give  the  Sa- 
guache  Short  Line  a  proper  schedule  at  once,  and  so 
by  his  dispensation  on  the  twenty-fifth  of  May, 
as  Jeff  had  boasted  (he  thought  of  it  now),  trains 
were  running  from  Pueblo  to  Saguache.  The 
Denver  and  Western,  too,  restored  its  old  schedule 
from  Kinney,  and  the  Saguache  Mountain  Develop-  - 
ment  Company  resumed  its  business  by  really  devel 
oping. 

In  the  absence  of  his  two  sons,  Camilla  and  Gladys 
sat  with  the  old  man,  reading  or  talking  to  him  as 
the  fancy  seized  him  to  have  them  do.  He  liked  to 
lie  on  a  couch  at  the  window  and  look  out  toward 

376 


GENERAL  BENT 


the  mountains  beyond  which  Jeff's  interests  lay, 
while  Camilla  told  him  of  her  husband's  early 
struggles  in  the  Valley.  He  questioned  her  eagerly, 
often  repeating  himself,  while  she  told  him  of  the 
"Watch  Us  Grow"  sign,  of  the  failure  of  Mesa  City, 
and  of  its  rejuvenescence. 

"Perhaps,  after  all,"  the  old  man  would  sigh, 
"perhaps  it  did  him  no  harm.  It  makes  me  very 
happy,  child. "  He  didn't  say  what  made  him  happy, 
but  Camilla  knew. 

Then  there  came  a  day  when  the  General  was  pro 
nounced  out  of  all  danger  and  capable  of  resuming  a 
small  share  of  his  old  responsibilities.  On  that  day 
new  articles  of  partnership  were  drawn  for  the  firm 
of  Bent  &  Company,  into  which  Jeff  Wray  was 
now  admitted.  The  "Lone  Tree"  mine  and  the 
Saguache  Smelter  figured  in  the  transaction.  Mrs. 
Cheyne,  who  had  a  wise  corner  in  her  pretty  head, 
refused  to  accept  the  money  which  had  been  ad 
vanced  to  Jeff  Wray,  and  now  insisted  on  bonds  of 
the  Development  Company  and  stock  in  the  Short 
Line.  Lawrence  Berkely,  whose  peace  had  been 
made  with  Curtis  Janney,  now  became  the  Western 
representative  of  the  Amalgamated  Reduction  Com 
pany,  with  Pete  Mulrennan  as  actual  head  of  the 
Mesa  City  plant.  It  was  from  General  Bent  that 
all  of  the  plans  emanated,  and  Curtis  Janney  with 
out  difficulty  succeeded  in  arranging  matters  in 
New  York.  He  took  a  sardonic  pleasure  in  remind 
ing  the  General  that  he  had  once  suggested  the 
advisability  of  using  Jeff's  talents  for  the  benefit 
25  377 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


of  their   company  —  and   accepted  these  plans  as 
a  slight  tribute  to  his  own  wisdom. 

General  Bent  wanted  to  go  up  to  Mesa  City  to 
see  the  mine,  but  it  was  thought  best  by  the  doctors 
to  send  him  East  to  a  lower  altitude,  and  so,  about 
the  middle  of  June,  Cortland  took  him  to  New  York, 
leaving  Jeff  and  Camilla  to  stay  for  a  while  at  Mesa 
City,  where  Camilla  could  watch  the  building  of 
"Glen  Irwin."  She  could  not  find  it  in  her  heart 
to  give  up  the  West  —  not  altogether.  Later  on 
they  would  spend  their  summers  there  —  up  in 
the  mountains  —  Jeff's  mountains. 


CHAPTER  XXVIH 

HOUSEHOLD  GODS  —  AND  GODDESSES 

THE  years  which  followed  seemed  very  short 
ones  to  Camilla  —  a  time  of  quiet  delight,  of 
restitution,  and  fulfillment.  General  Bent 
had  wanted  them  to  come  and  live  with  him  in  the  old 
house  down  in  Madison  Avenue,  and  Jeff,  in  his  whole 
hearted  way,  had  given  him  the  promise,  but  it  was 
Camilla  who  had  thought  it  wisest  for  them  to  have 
an  establishment  of  their  own.  The  house  was  just 
off  the  avenue  near  the  Park,  a  rented  place,  for 
Camilla  had  not  yet  arrived  at  the  state  of  mind  to 
consider  New  York  their  home.  But  most  of  Jeff's 
time  was  now  spent  in  New  York  —  seven  months 
of  the  year  at  least  —  and  she  was  beginning  to 
learn  with  reluctance  that  before  long  only  their 
summers  could  be  spent  at "  Glen  Ir win . "  On  certain 
afternoons  Camilla  sat  in  the  library  downstairs 
with  her  embroidery -frame  (she  always  seemed  to  be 
sewing  now),  her  lap  covered  with  thin,  flimsy 
fabrics,  the  borders  of  which  she  was  embellishing. 
They  were  very  tiny  pieces  of  material,  apparently 
shapeless,  but  from  time  to  time  she  held  them  at 
arm's  length  before  her,  her  head  on  one  side,  and 
smiled  approval  of  her  own  handiwork.  It  was  here 
that  Jeff  liked  to  find  her  —  thus  occupied.  He  had 

379 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


not  even  contracted  the  habit  of  stopping  at  a  club 
on  the  way  uptown,  and  unless  he  was  detained  on 
important  matters  she  knew  when  she  would  hear 
the  sound  of  his  key  in  the  latch  outside. 

Mrs.  Wray  had  made  it  known  that  she  was  not 
at  home  except  to  the  chosen  few.  The  General 
came  on  certain  days  for  his  " toddy,"  Gladys  on 
the  way  home  from  "teaing  it,"  Mrs.  Rumsen, 
Dolly  Haviland,  and  Rita  Cheyne,  each  for  a  peep 
behind  the  curtain. 

Rita  Cheyne  came  oftenest  and  stayed  longest. 
She  had  no  social  responsibilities,  she  claimed,  except 
that  of  seeing  the  small  garments  in  Camilla's  lap 
made  successfully.  She  was  hopelessly  bored, 
more  demurely  cheerful,  more  buoyantly  pessimistic 
than  ever. 

"What  a  joy  it  must  be,"  she  sighed,  "to  have  an 
object  in  life.  My  objects  are  all  subjective.  I  have 
a  dreadful  fear  that  I'm  getting  to  be  a  philos 
opher. " 

Camilla  bit  off  her  thread  and  smiled. 

"Platonic?"  she  asked. 

"I'm  afraid  so.  I  used  to  take  such  desperate 
fancies  to  people.  I  used  to  want  to  make  people 
like  me  whether  they  wanted  to  or  not.  Now  I'm 
really  indifferent.  I  actually  don't  care  whether  my 
hat  is  on  straight  or  not.  It's  such  a  pity.  I  used 
to  like  to  be  svelte,  fluffy,  and  smartly  groomed.  I 
didn't  mind  suffering  the  tortures  of  the  rack  if  I 
knew  I  was  effective.  Now  —  I'm  positively  dowdy. 
I  don't  care  what  I  wear  so  long  as  I'm  comfortable 

380 


HOUSEHOLD    GODS  — AND   GODDESSES 

—  and  I'm  actually  getting  fat,  Camilla!  The 
horror  of  it!" 

Camilla  looked  up  at  the  exquisite  afternoon 
frock,  which  fitted  her  slender  figure  as  only  one  made 
by  Patrain  could,  and  smiled. 

"Yes,  Rita,  positively  corpulent.  It's  a  pity. 
You  really  had  a  good  figure  once. " 

"The  worst  of  it  is  that  I  don't  seem  to  care," 
she  went  on,  oblivious.  "I  used  to  love  to  dress  for 
moods  —  for  my  moods  and  for  other  people's.  I 
thought  that  Art  could  solve  every  problem  that  came 
to  me.  Art!"  she  sniffed  contemptuously.  "Art 
in  a  woman  is  merely  a  confession  of  inefficiency.  I 
used  to  think  that  Art  was  immortal.  Now  I  find 
that  only  Nature  is." 

Camilla  lifted  the  tiny  sacque  with  its  absurd 
blue  silk  cuffs  and  examined  it  with  a  satisfied  air. 
When  she  had  finished  she  leaned  over  to  Rita  and 
whispered  with  the  air  of  an  oracle: 

"Nature  is  —  immortal." 

"It  is.  You're  right,"  she  sighed.  "But  it's  my 
nature  to  be  merely  mortal  —  and  I'm  going  to  die 
very  hard.  I  must  continue  to  hide  my  ineffi 
ciencies  —  by  Art. " 

"You're  not  inefficient,"  Camilla  corrected. 
"You're  merely  feminine — extravagantly  fem 
inine ' ' 

"Yes,  feminine  —  but  not  womanly.  Oh,  I  know 
what  I  am!"  she  concluded  fiercely. 

"You're  a  darling!"  said  Camilla  softly.  "You're 
very  much  more  womanly  than  you  want  people 

381 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


to  think  you  are.  Why  should  you  take  such  a  de 
light  in  these?"  Camilla  laid  a  hand  on  the  wicker 
basket  beside  her. 

Rita  took  up  one  of  the  tiny  garments  and  ex 
amined  it  with  minute  interest. 

"It's  very  pretty,  isn't  it?  But  quite  silly. 
Imagine  anything  so  tiny!  What  a  lot  of  trouble 
you  take.  And  you've  made  them  all  yourself. 
They're  really  exquisite. " 

"They're  Art's  tribute  to  Nature,  Rita,"  said 
Camilla  with  an  air  of  finality. 

Mrs.  Cheyne  sighed. 

"My  mission  in  life  is  ended,  Camilla.  I'm  quite 
sure  of  it  now.  You've  convinced  me.  I'm  actually 
envious  of  a  woman  who  sits  by  the  fire  and  sews 
baby-clothes.  Your  industry  is  a  reproach  —  your 
smile  a  reproof  and  your  happiness  a  condemnation. 
I  know  you're  right.  You've  really  solved  the 
problem,  and  I  haven't.  I  never  will.  I'm  past 
that  now.  I'm  going  to  grow  old  ungracefully, 
yielding  the  smallest  fraction  of  an  inch  at  a 
time  to  the  inevitable.  I'm  going  to  be  stout, 
I  know  it  —  and  probably  dumpy.  I  could 
weep,  Camilla." 

"Who's  talking  of  weeping  here?"  said  a  voice. 
And  General  Bent,  with  his  stick,  came  thumping 
in.  "Oh  — you,  Rita?"  he  laughed.  "Women 
never  cry  unless  there's  something  to  be  gained 
by  it."  Rita  offered  him  her  cheek,  and  Camilla 
rang  for  tea.  In  a  moment  Mrs.  Rumsen 
came  in. 


HOUSEHOLD   GODS  —  AND   GODDESSES 

"I  knew  you  were  here,  Rita,"  she  said,  bending 
her  tall  figure  for  a  caress. 

"How?" 

"Teddy  Wether  by 's  machine  —  at  the  corner  - 
and  Teddy." 

"Is  he  waiting  still?  Such  a  nice  boy  —  but 
absolutely  oblivious  of  the  passage  of  time." 

"I  thought  you'd  given  up  your  kindergarten, 
Rita,"  put  in  Camilla,  laughing. 

"I  have.  But  Teddy  is  my  prize  pupil.  He's 
taking  a  post-graduate  course."  And,  when  they 
all  laughed  at  her,  she  turned  on  them  severely.  "I 
won't  have  you  laughing  at  Teddy.  He's  really  an 
angel." 

"I'm  going  to  tell  his  mother,"  said  Mrs.  Rumsen. 

Rita  took  her  tea  cup  and  sank  back  in  her  chair 
absently.  "Oh,  well  —  perhaps  you'd  better,"  she 
said.  "I'm  going  in  for  square-toed  shoes  and  settle 
ment  meetings. " 

The  General  grunted  and  sipped  his  Scotch,  but 
when  Jeff  and  Cortland  came  in  the  women  were 
still  laughing  at  Mrs.  Cheyne.  Jeff  walked  across 
the  room  to  his  wife  and  kissed  her. 

"Father  — Aunt  Caroline  —  Hello !  Rita." 

"Well,  sir —  "  from  Camilla,  "please  give  an  ac 
count  of  yourself." 

"You'll  have  to  speak  to  Cort.  We  stopped  in 
at  the  Club  for  a  minute.  Cheyne  was  there  and 
Hal  Dulaney,  Perot,  Steve  Gillis,  Douglas  War- 
rington,  and  two  or  three  others.  They  wanted  us 
to  stay  for  dinner.  But  we  didn't." 

383 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


"Of  course  not,"  said  Camilla  so  decisively  that 
Hit  a  Cheyne  laughed. 

"There!"  she  said  pityingly.  "Oh,  Jeff!  a  sub 
ject  and  a  slave  as  well!  Aren't  you  really  going 
to  let  him  go,  Camilla?" 

Camilla  looked  up  into  Jeff's  face  with  a  heavenly 
smile. 

"Of  course  —  if  he  wants  to." 

"But  I  don't  want  to,"  said  Jeff,  sinking  into  a 
chair  with  a  comfortable  sigh.  "This  is  good  enough 
for  me.  Besides,"  he  added  mischievously,  "it 
looked  like  a  meeting." 

"What  kind  of  a  meeting?" 

"Of  the  Rita  Cheyne  Protective  Association." 

"Jeff,  you're  horrid!"  said  Rita,  but  she 
laughed. 

"I'm  not,"  he  said  calmly.  "They  have  my  full 
sympathy  and  support.  I  told  'em  so." 

"Your  sins  are  finding  you  out,  my  dear  cousin," 
chuckled  the  General.  "They  always  do  in  the 
end." 

"Oh,  you're  hopeless  —  all  of  you,"  sighed  the 
culprit,  setting  down  her  tea  cup. 
,  Cortland  finished  his  drink  in  leisurely  fashion 
and  dropped  into  the  vacant  chair  beside  his 
father.  "Well,  we  put  it  over,"  he  said 
quietly. 

"The  bond  issue?" 

"Yes,  sir  —  we  had  a  fight  in  the  board,  but  we 
got  Mclntyre's  vote  at  last  and  jammed  it  through 
—  that  was  all  we  needed. " 

384 


HOUSEHOLD   GODS  — AND   GODDESSES 

"I  didn't  think  it  was  possible,"  the  old  man 
exclaimed. 

"It  wasn't  easy,  but  Jeff  managed  it." 

"I  didn't  sir,"  Jeff  interposed.  "Cort  did  the 
whole  thing.  We've  made  him  president.  We 
made  it  unanimous  in  the  end. " 

"By  George,  Cort,  I'm  proud  of  you.  I  always 
knew  you  had  the  stuff  in  you  if  we  ever  woke  you 
up." 

"Oh,  I  guess  I'm  awake  all  right.  A  fellow  has 
to  be  down  there."  He  leaned  forward  and  picked 
up  an  article  on  the  work  basket. 

"Where's  His  Majesty?"  he  asked  of  Mrs.  Wray. 

Camilla  glanced  at  the  clock. 

"Asleep,  I  hope.  He's  been  very  dissipated 
lately.  He  was  up  yesterday  until  seven." 

"Takes  after  his  father,"  said  Mrs.  Cheyne  scorn- 
fully. 

At  that  moment  a  small  cry  was  heard  upstairs, 
and  Camilla  flew.  "The  lamb!"  she  cried,  and 
from  the  hall  they  heard  her  telling  the  trained 
nurse  to  bring  the  infant  down.  At  the  bottom  of 
the  steps  she  met  them  and  bore  him  triumphantly 
in.  He  was  a  very  small  person  with  large  round 
blue  eyes  that  stared  like  Jeff's.  They  looked  at 
nobody  in  particular,  and  yet  they  were  filled  with 
the  wisdom  of  the  ages. 

"What  a  little  owl  he  is!"  said  Rita,  but  when 
she  jangled  her  gold  purse  before  his  eyes  he 
seized  it  with  both  hands  and  gurgled  ex 
ultantly. 

385 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


"He  knows  a  good  thing  when  he  sees  it, "  laughed 
Cort.  "  Got  the  gold  fever,  too. " 

"What  a  shame!"  said  Camilla  indignantly. 
"He  hasn't  any  kind  of  a  fever,  have  you,  Cornelius?" 

The  child  said,  "Da!" 

"Didn't  I  tell  you?    He  knows. " 

"He  has  such  fuzzy  pink  hair!"  said  Cort,  rub 
bing  it  the  wrong  way.  "Do  you  think  it  will 
stay  pink?" 

"You  sha'n't  be  godfather  to  my  son  if  you  say 
another  word,  Cortland.  Here,  nurse,  take  him. 
They  sha'n't  abuse  him  any  longer."  She  pressed 
her  lips  rapturously  against  his  rosy  cheek  and  re 
leased  him.  Mrs.  Rumsen  gazed  through  her 
lorgnon,  while  the  infant,  with  a  cry  of  delight, 
pulled  the  glasses  from  the  General's  nose. 

"No  respect  for  age!  None  at  all!"  said  Mrs. 
Rumsen. 

After  a  while  they  all  went  away  —  Rita  Cheyne 
to  her  post-graduate  pupil,  Mrs.  Rumsen  to  her 
brougham,  and  Cort  and  his  father  to  the  walk 
downtown,  leaving  Camilla  and  Jeff  sitting  at  the 
fireside  alone.  One  armchair  was  big  enough 
for  them  both.  She  sat  on  his  knees  and  leaned 
back  against  him,  close  in  the  shelter  of  his 
arms. 

"You  didn't  want  to  stay  out  to  dinner,  did  you, 
Jeff?"  she  asked. 

"Oh,  yes,"  he  said,  "of  course  I  did.  I'm  very 
fond  of  dining  out. " 

She  laughed  contentedly.  They  had  dined  out 
386 


HOUSEHOLD   GODS  — AND   GODDESSES 

only  once  this  winter,  and  that  was  at  his  father's 
house.     There  was  a  long  silence. 

"Poor  Rita,"  she  sighed  at  last,  "what's  to  be 
come  of  her?  She's  not  really  happy,  Jeff.  I  some 
times  think "  she  paused. 

"What?" 

"That  she  still  thinks  of  you." 

Jeff  laughed.  "I  hope  she  does.  Why, 
silly?" 

"Simply  because  she  never  gives  me  the  slightest 
reason  to  think  that  she  does. " 

Jeff  rubbed  his  nose  thoughtfully. 

"That's  one  too  many  for  me." 

"Don't  you  know  that  a  woman  always  judges 
another  woman  by  the  thoughts  she  sup 
presses?" 

"That's  nonsense." 

"No,  it  isn't.  I  won't  have  you  say  that  what 
I  think  is  nonsense. " 

She  turned  her  head  toward  him  and  looked  down 
into  his  eyes. 

"Are  you  sure  you  never  cared  for  Rita?  Not  a 
little?" 

"Sure." 

"It  was  the  Forbidden  Way,  Jeff.  Do  you  like 
this  way  —  our  way  —  better?  " 

He  held  her  closer  in  his  arms  and  that  repiy 
seemed  adequate.  She  asked  him  no  more  ques 
tions  until  some  moments  later,  and  she  asked  him 
that  one  because  she  always  liked  the  way  he 
answered  it. 

38? 


THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY 


A  sudden  loud  rasping  of  the  dining-room  hangings 
on  their  brass  rod,  and  Camilla  sprang  up  hurriedly. 
She  even  had  time  to  go  to  the  mantel  mirror  and 
rearrange  the  disorder  of  her  hair  before  the  butler 
came  in  to  announce  dinner. 

He  was  a  well-trained  servant. 


(2) 


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Illustrated  by  Maynard  Dixon. 

One  of  the  best  stories  of  "Vagabondia  "  ever  written,  and 
one  of  the  most  accurate  and  picturesque  of  the  stampede  of  gold 
seekers  to  the  Yukon.  The  love  story  embedded  in  the  narrative 
is  strikingly  original, 

AsJt  for  compete  free  list  of   G.  &  D.    Popular  Copyrighted  Fiction 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,  526  WEST  26th  ST.,  NEW  YORK 


A  FEW  OF 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP'S 
Great  Books  at  Little  Prices 

THE  MUSIC  MASTER.    By  Charles  Klein.     Illustrated 

by  John  Rae. 

This  marvelously  vivid  narrative  turns  upon  the  search  of  a  Ger 
man  musician  in  Mew  York  for  his  little  daughter.    Mr.  Klein  has  < 
veil  portrayed  his  pathetic  struggle  with  poverty,  his  varied  expe-J 
riences  in  endeavoring  to  meet  the  demands  of  a  public  not  trained 
to  an  appreciation  of  the  classic,  and  his  final  great  hour  when,  in 
the  rapidly  shifting  events  of  a  big  city,  his  little  daughter,  now  a 
beautifnl  young  woman,  is  brought  to  his  very  door.    A  superb  bit 
of  fiction,  palpitating  with   the   life  of  the  great  metropolis.    The 
play  in  which  David  Warfield  scored  his  highest  success. 

^R.    LAVENDAR'S    PEOPLE.      By    Margaret  Deland. 

Illustrated  by  Lucius  Hitchcock. 

Mrs.  Deland  won  so  many  friends  through  Old  Chester  Tales 
that  this  volume  needs  no  introduction  beyond  it&  title.  The  lova 
ble  doctor  is  more  ripened  in  this  later  book,  and  the  simple  come 
dies  and  tragedies  of  the  old  village  are  told  with  dramatic  charm. 

OLD  CHESTER  TALES.  By  Margaret  Deland.  Illustrated 

by  Howard  Pyle. 

Stories  portraying  with  delightful  humor  and  pathos  a  quaint  peo 
ple  in  a  sleepy  old  town.  Dr.  Lavendar,  a  very  human  and  lovable 
"preacher,"  is  the  connecting  link  between  these  dramatic  stories 
from  lif e. 

HE  FELL  IN  LOVE  WITH  HIS  WIFE.    By  E.  P.  Roe. 

With  frontispiece. 

The  hero  is  a  farmer — a  man  with  honest,  sincere  views  of  life. 
Beieft  of  his  wife,  his  home  is  cared  for  by  a  succession  of  domes 
tics  of  varying  degrees  of  inefficiency  until,  from  a  most  unpromis 
ing  source,  comes  a  young  woman  who  not  only  becomes  his  wife 
but  commands  his  respect  and  eventually  wins  his  love.  A  bright 
and  delicate  romance,  revealing  on  both  sides  a  love  that  surmounts 
all  difficulties  and  survives  the  censure  of  friends  as  well  as  the  bit- 
terness  of  enemies. 

THE  YOKE.    By  Elizabeth  Miller. 

Against  the  historical  background  of  the  days  when  the  children 
of  Israel  were  delivered  from  the  bondage  of  Egypt,  the  author  has 
sketched  a  romance  of  compelling  charm.  A  biblical  novel  as  great 
is  any  since  "  Ben  Hur." 

SAUL  OF  TARSUS.    By  Elizabeth  Miller.    Illustrated  by ' 

Andrd  Castaigne. 

The  scenes  of  this  story  are  laid  in  Jerusalem,  Alexandria,  Rome 
and  Damascus.  The  Apostle  Paul,  the  Martyr  Stephen,  Herod 
Agrippa  and  the  Emperors  Tiberius  and  Caligula  are  among  the 
mighty  figures  that  move  through  the  pages.  Wonderful  descrip- 
tions,  and  a  love  story  of  the  purest  and  noblest  type  mark  this 
most  remarkable  religious  romance. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,  526  WEST  26th  ST.,  NEW  YORK 


A  FEW  OF 

GROSSET  &   DUNLAP'S 
Great  Books  at  Little  Prices 

WHEN  A  MAN  MARRIES.  By  Mary  Roberts  Rinehart 
Illustrated  by  Harrison  Fisher  and  Mayo  Bunker. 

A  young  artist,  whose  wife  had  recently  divorced  him,  finds  that 
a  visit  is  due  from  his  Aunt  Selina,  an  elderly  lady  having  ideas 
about  things  quite  apart  from  the  Bohemian  set  in  which  her 
nephew  is  a  shining  light.  The  way  in  which  matters  are  tempo 
rarily  adjusted  forms  the  motif  of  the  story. 

A  farcical  extravaganza,  dramatized  under  the  title  of  "Seven  Days* 

THE  FASHIONABLE    ADVENTURES   OF  JOSHUA 

CRAIG.     By  David  Graham  Phillips.     Illustrated. 
A  young  westerner,    uncouth   and   unconventional,   appears  in 
political  and  social  life  in  Washington.     He  attains  power  in  poli 
tics,  and  a  young  woman  of  the  exclusive  set  becomes  his  wife,  un 
dertaking  his  education  in  social  amenities. 

"DOC."  GORDON.  By  Mary  E.  Wilkins-Freeman.  Illus 
trated  by  Frank  T.  Merrill. 

Against  the  familiar  background  of  American  town  life,  the 
author  portrays  a  group  of  people  strangely  involved  in  a  mystery. 
"Doc."  Gordon,  the  one  physician  of  the  place,  Dr.  Elliot,  his 
assistant,  a  beautiful  woman  and  her  altogether  charming  daughter 
are  all  involved  in  the  plot.  A  novel  of  great  interest. 

HOLY  ORDERS.    By  Marie  Corelli. 

A  dramatic  story,  in  which  is  pictured  a  clergyman  in  touch  with 
society  people,  stage  favorites,  simple  village  folk,  powerful  finan 
ciers  and  others,  each  presenting  vital  problems  to  this  man  "in 
holy  orders" — problems  that  we  are  now  struggling  with  in  America, 

KATRINE.    By  Elinor  Macartney  Lane.   With  frontispiece. 

Katrine,  the  heroine  of  this  story,  is  a  lovely  Irish  girl,  of  lowly 
birth,  but  gifted  with  a  beautiful  voice. 

The  narrative  is  based  on  the  facts  of  an  actual  singer's  career, 
and  the  viewpoint  throughout  is  a  most  exalted  one. 

THE   FORTUNES    OF  FIF1.    By  Molly  Elliot  Seawell. 

Illustrated  by  T.  de  Thulstrup. 

A  story  of  life  in  France  at  the  time  of  the  first  Napoleon.  Fifi. 
a  glad,  mad  little  actress  of  eighteen,  is  the  star  performer  in  a  third 
rate  Parisian  theatre.  A  story  as  dainty  as  a  Watteau  painting. 

SHE  THAT  HESITATES.  By  Harris  Dickson.  Illus 
trated  by  C.  W.  Relyea. 

The  scene  of  this  dashing  romance  shifts  from  Dresden  to  S*. 
Petersburg  in  the  reign  of  Peter  the  Great,  and  then  to  New  Orleans. 

The  hero  is  a  French  Soldier  of  Fortune,  and  the  princess,  who 
hesitates — but  you  must  read  the  story  to  know  how  she  that  hesitates 
may  be  lost  and  yet  saved. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,  526  WEST  26th  ST.,  NEW  YORK 


